


Tell It to the Willows

by deadeyeboy



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Abuse, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Historical, Dubious Consent, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-11
Updated: 2018-09-05
Packaged: 2018-10-17 15:05:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 64,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10596513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadeyeboy/pseuds/deadeyeboy
Summary: It's the height of the 1950s, and Gabriel Reyes, a newly ordained Catholic priest, has been assigned to the remote New Mexican town of Dry Creek. He's not expecting much from such a sleepy little place - and he's certainly not expecting trouble in the form of the town's resident firebrand. His name: Jesse McCree.





	1. Enter the Firebrand

**Author's Note:**

> this is my very first attempt at a multi-chaptered fic - and all thanks to [ Maren](http://lizenzkreuz.tumblr.com/) who came up with the original idea and has helped me brainstorm a good deal of the plot. really couldn't have started without them!! 
> 
> please let me know if there is any content that i should tag for!
> 
> EDIT: maren's drawn a [map of dry creek](http://i.imgur.com/Oi10RWJ.png)!

Never in his life has Gabe seen such a lonely road as the one bearing him onward, onward into the desert. It winds through the pink rock of the craggy mesas, past the wind-whipped sage and creosote brush that litter the rocky sand. There’s no sign of life in sight.

Gabe’s knees are littered with bruises from where his suitcase has knocked against them over every countless bump and divot in the beaten road. All of the truck's windows are rolled down, so he is dust-covered and sun-weary and thirsty, skin stretched tight around the edges. If his mama were to see him now, she’d scold him for being dirty: you’ll undo all my housework, fool boy, what were you thinking?

She’d scold him and he’d even be happier for it. As he is, his head is throbbing dully and there’s sweat pooling in the dip of his collarbone, staining into his thin undershirt. The only person talking his ear off now is the excitable little man sitting in the driver’s seat next to him. It was kind of the townspeople to send someone to pick him up from Albuquerque, but for a small town farmer, Lionel Walker is one of the chattiest human beings Gabe has ever met, and he's been to hair salons in Hollywood.

Gabe watches with glazed eyes as they pass by a weather-beaten sign that reads, in big peeling letters:

Welcome to DRY CREEK  
“Gem of the Desert!”  
Pop. 437

The last number is relatively shiny and new compared to the others, with faded outlines behind it that suggest it has been changed back and forth several times.

“No boom town, I’m guessing,” Gabe says, interrupting whatever Lionel has been babbling about for the past five minutes — this year’s cow harvest, or something.

“Oh, no sir.” Lionel seems unperturbed at having been cut off mid-sentence. Maybe he's used to it. “There’s not a whole lot happenin’ here, y’know. It’s a lotta older folk who come out here for peace and quiet, or they just never left. Most of the young’uns up and leave for the big city soon as they’re able. Why, my daughter Heidi—”

Gabe feels his eyes starting to unfocus as Lionel happily blathers on, and he let his head thump against the truck’s window frame. If he ever has trouble sleeping, he supposes he knows just the man for the job.

He tunes it out as they come to the main thoroughfare, which is a total of five blocks long and lined mostly by adobe buildings. They pass a tiny post office, the windows grimy with dust; across the street and a few doors down is the sheriff’s office, outside of which a tattered American flag flutters in the slight breeze. There’s a general store in the center of town, a tall wooden building that seems to sag under the weight of time, and right beside it is an old saloon that looks like something straight out of a Wild West picture.

It’s certainly— quaint, compared to what Gabe is used to.

A river runs through the south end of the town, slow and deep. Wild grasses and weeping willows line its banks, long curtains of leaves draping into the gentle current. It’s an oasis of green in a landscape of dry scrub and rock. As the truck rumbles over the narrow wooden bridge, Gabe stretches his head out the window and glances down into the dark, glimmering water. It looks deliciously refreshing in the mid-afternoon heat.

His destination lays only a short ways from the river. Our Lady of Guadalupe Church, cast in old brick and adobe, rests at the top of a gentle slope, a weathered wooden cross leaning to one side atop the belfry. Behind it lays the rectory, the brighter color of the white adobe walls and red-tiled roof suggesting it is a newer addition that the desert sun has not yet washed out.

The graveyard that sits just beside the church looks much older, the headstones cracked and crumbling behind a drooping stone wall. A statue of the Virgin Mary rests at the back; she would be gazing out over the graves, hands clasped in prayer, but for one slight detail: her face is missing.

Gabe regards it uneasily as the truck rolls to a stop in front of the church. Then he shakes himself; he mustn’t let his exhaustion get to him like that.

He tips his hat and thanks Lionel for the ride as he drags himself and his suitcase and his cane out of the passenger’s side door. It’s perhaps a little rude to shut the door as quickly as he does, but he’s honestly unsure if he could handle another monologue about the finer points of plowing cornfields.

As the truck pulls away, Gabe just stands in the middle of the stone pathway that leads up to the church, leaning on his cane and drinking in the silence and the sight of the place that will be his home and his place of worship for the next four years. Something like weary giddiness inflates in his chest, the thrill of novelty making him feel buoyant even through the fatigue.

The glaring heat of the midday desert sun eventually drives him foward, into the shade of the young oaks that stand guard to either side of the front steps. One of the large double doors is slightly ajar; it creaks as Gabe pushes it open and steps into the nave, sighing in relief as he’s met by blessedly cool air.

It’s certainly no St. Vincent de Paul. The ceiling is relatively low and made up of thick wooden rafters, and rather than grand stained-glass windows, there are merely clear glass panes set deep into the white adobe walls. Modest paintings in wooden frames illustrate the Creation along the walls. The most ornate thing in the room is the tabernacle housing, a rust-orange thing with deep green trim that stretches almost all the way up the eastern wall, topped by a painted wooden carving of baby Jesus in the manger surrounded by a golden halo.

It’s small, homely, and Gabe is immediately taken with it. There’s no strike-the-fear-of-God aura to be found here; only peace and warmth, a sort of quiet serenity.

The nave is empty save for a man standing behind the pulpit, draped in green vestments and flipping idly through a prayer book. He glances up as the doors groan to a close behind Gabe. He does the smallest of double takes, pale eyes widening slightly behind a tiny pair of reading glasses. After a moment, he speaks with a voice like gravel.

“Gabriel Reyes, I presume?” The man has stern features, lined with worry more than age, and a receding crop of greying blond hair. Most striking are the deep scars gouged across what would otherwise be a standardly handsome face, as if he’d been slashed by claws.

Or shrapnel.

Gabe limps forward, hand extended. “Father Morrison?” He takes in the straight-backed set of the man’s shoulders, the steely strong handshake, and thinks he’s met a fellow military man.

“That’s right.” Morrison peeps at him over his reading glasses. Before Gabe can ask, Morrison saves him the trouble: “Forgive my asking, but you've got that air about you: you served?”

Gabe straightens up instinctively, even as his knee twinges and protests at the movement. “30th Infantry.”

“Not Old Hickory?” Morrison looks gratifyingly impressed when Gabe nods. “Hell’s bells, you fellows had a rough time of it. You were in Normandy, then?”

“D-Day plus four, yes.”

Morrison drags a hand over his mouth. “Good Lord. It’s a miracle the both of us are standing here. I was in Ardennes — 76th Infantry.”

Gabe lets out a low whistle. For a brief moment they revel in mutual awe, soldiers in solidarity though they've only just met. They’re both standing here: a miracle indeed.

Morrison clears his throat, shaking his head with a tiny grimace. “Anyway. It’s wonderful that you’ve arrived alright. Now I figure you might be a bit tired from your flight from LA, but once you’ve settled in a bit and rested up, a few of the townsfolk have decided to whip up a little welcoming dinner after the evening service.”

He rests a hand on Gabe’s shoulder as he directs him towards one of the side corridors at the back of the church. “Everyone’s dying to meet you, you know. We don’t get new people around here often.” The hallway is dim even in the middle of the day; there are no electric lights and only one window. Gabe wonders if he’ll have to use a candle to walk down it in the night.

“Ah, I realize this town’s a good sight smaller than what you’re used to, but we’re a very close-knit community, all God-fearing folk, you know.” Morrison hesitates as they near the heavy-looking door at the end of the hallway. “Just. Let me know if anyone gives you any trouble, alright?”

That brings Gabe up short, eyebrows knitting together. “Trouble as in?” he ventures cautiously.

Morrison coughs. “Well, you being a military man and all, I’m sure you can hold your own, you know.” He looks embarrassed, rubbing at the back of his neck. “We just have some, uh, rather traditional folk here. I realize in the big city it might not be so uncommon for, well, for a darker fellow to be a reverend, but here—”

All at once, Gabe’s mood plummets like a stone. “Oh, I understand well enough, Father,” he says flatly. “Believe you me, the city isn’t much better.”

When he’d seen his assignment to New Mexico, he’d been rather excited, perhaps foolishly assuming that he’d be in a small town of largely Chicano origin. He supposes that there’s just no escaping white folk.

At the very least, Morrison does look sorry. “Well. Anyway.” He coughs again, digging into the pocket of his black slacks. “Your keys.” He drops them into Gabe’s outstretched hand. “Your room will be the farthest down the hallway, if you’d like to rest.” He gives Gabe’s shoulder another friendly pat that Gabe only barely resists the urge to brush away, suddenly very much not in the mood to be touched. “And welcome to Dry Creek, Father Reyes.”

Gabe watches Morrison shuffle back down the corridor. He’s in considerably lower spirits than he’d been minutes ago. In an attempt to distract himself, he pushes open the door to the rectory and steps in to take his first look at his new home.

It’s fairly basic, white adobe walls and a brown-tiled floor. The living room has an ugly floral sofa and a small TV with crooked antennae — someone has left it on, and Gabe watches for a moment as Charlie Chaplin squeezes through the gears of a factory machine. A windowed half wall separates the living room from a small kitchen.

Backtracking a bit, Gabe peers into the doorway branching off of the living room and finds that it opens onto a dimly lit corridor, illuminated only by the light from a grimy window set into the farthest wall. This must be where the bedrooms are. His is at the very end of the hallway, Father Morrison had said.

Small, mass-produced portraits of the apostles peer down at Gabe from the wall as he makes his way towards the last door. A shiver runs up his spine, electric. He closes the bedroom door behind him almost too quickly.

Too many judging eyes trained on the back of his head.

Like the rest of the rectory, his room is fairly spartan, the white walls bare save for a wooden cross that hangs over the head of the bed. There’s an old oaken dresser immediately to the right of the door. Gabe is lucky enough to have two windows, one that faces his bed and lets the late afternoon sun filter over the starchy white sheets. The other sits above a small wooden desk, upon which someone has thoughtfully left a sheaf of loose leaf paper and a fountain pen.

A soft sigh pushes its way out of Gabe’s chest, too loud in the silence of the room. He drops his suitcase at the foot of his bed and sits heavily on the mattress, the springs creak in protest beneath him as he leans down pulls his shoes off. Tenderly, he uses his hands to ease his left leg onto the bed, taking care not to jostle his knee, then swings the other up after it. He can’t remember the last time he was so bone-achingly tired; maybe the dry, dusty heat getting is to him already.

“Or maybe you’re just getting old.” Even his voice sounds worn to his own ears. Like a crackling radio, too far out in the middle of nowhere to get a clear signal.

Resisting another sigh, Gabe presses his hands to his face and thanks God that he made it all the way here before thumping back onto the bed. He’ll wash up later; for now, he needs rest.

. . .

Gabe jerks awake with a snort. It takes a moment for him to figure out what’s woken him, gazing up at the ceiling with his mouth half-open before he registers the knocking at his door. “One— I’m awake!” he calls, pushing himself upright and pulling a face at the little stain of drool he’d left on the pillow.

“The dinner’s in an hour. I figured you’d conked right out so I just wanted to give you a little time to freshen up.” Father Morrison’s voice comes through the door, warmly amused. “The washroom is at the other end of the hallway.”

Gabe stares at the ceiling above him for a full five minutes before pushing himself up and yawning widely, stretching his arms above his head. He groans as he twists his back and his spine pops several times. All of his joints are creaking a little more lately, a constant reminder that he’s pushing thirty-seven and his body refuses to tolerate any sort of abuse.

His knee throbs as he stoops over his suitcase to dig out his little Bayer tin. He swallows two chalky tablets dry, then shakes out a third one for the dull ache in his head. Too much, Gabi, you’ll make yourself sick, his mama’s scolding voice echoes in his ears.

“Sorry, Mama,” he murmurs before popping the third tablet into his mouth as well.

Yawning again, he stumbles into the washroom with his shaving kit, feeling half-dead and looking about as pretty. He drags a hand over his mouth, the rough stubble growing in around his customary goatee prickling at his palm. He splashes ice cold water on his face, sputtering; he can at least show these townspeople that he knows how to clean up.

He knows that safety razors are much more popular nowadays, but Gabe’s father taught him how to shave with a straight razor and Gabe doesn’t think he’ll ever do it any other way. There’s something soothing about being confident enough in his own skill and personal safety to take a sharp blade to his face, to trust himself not to cut himself up.

Washing the soap lather and cropped stubble from his face leaves him feeling wonderfully refreshed. He runs a comb through his short hair as a cursory gesture and takes a moment to inspect himself in the mirror; nothing to be done about the bags under his eyes, but he can at least straighten his collar and attempt to smooth the wrinkles out of his checkered button-up and dark slacks.

Morrison is waiting in the common room, and he glances up from his book as Gabe enters, tucking away the reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. He looks pleased, somehow, looking Gabe up and down. “Well, don’t you clean up nice?”

Gabes feels the corner of his mouth tick up. “It’s only natural.” Maybe that was too smug. He tugs on his shirt collar. “Wanted to make a good first impression. At the dinner.”

“Right. Right!” Father Morrison clears his throat and pushes to his feet. “We’ll be having it in front of town hall. During the summer we have a potluck there on Fridays, so I’m sure you’ll be seeing plenty of it.” Gabe doesn’t doubt it; he can’t imagine there’s a whole lot else to do in this town.

There’s a warm breeze stirring the trees as he and Father Morrison make their way across the river to the town hall. It’s not a very grand building, a solid brick thing with a squat clock tower, but it’s the largest that Dry Creek has to offer, settled near the north bank of the river and off the main street. The glare of the drooping sun on the clock face forces Gabe to squint to see that it’s about half past six.

There’s an unkempt village green hemmed in by the rustling willow trees that line the riverbank, and in the middle of it is a large fire pit surrounded old rickety wooden benches. Twenty or so people mill about the crackling flames, chatting amongst themselves. One man has enraptured several young children with what must be a truly thrilling story by the way he’s erratically flapping his arms. A nearby wooden table sags under the weight of the various dishes crammed onto it: at least seven different types of casserole, a gigantic platter of crackers and cheeses, deviled eggs, a vat of split-pea soup, several fat meat pies, a pot of buttery mashed potatoes; Gabe eyes a wobbling ring of green jello in apprehension.

As they approach, he’s reminded of what Morrison spoke to him about hours before: the darkest person here has only a deep tan.

He wonders if anyone told them that their newest priest would be a brown man.

Clearly not, judging by the wary-bordering-on-alarmed looks being shot in Gabe’s direction. One of the older women steps forward, a timid smile in place. She clasps her hands together. “Well, hello.” Her voice sounds like a bleating goat, grey curls bouncing as she speaks. “I'm Myrna O'Farrell. It’s awful nice to meet you, Father. I— I’ll have to say, you look a lot different than I pictured.”

“And how was that now?” Gabe bites it out sharp and watches her flush.

“Oh, it’s just— we don’t get many of—” She’s clearly flustered, making little grimacing smiles. “Oh, nevermind. It’s just dandy that you’re here! That’s all.”

“Thank you, Myrna,” Father Morrison interrupts before Gabe can open his mouth to say something cutting. “If you’ll pardon us, though, I’m going to get Father Reyes acquainted with the food. So much traveling will give a man a mighty appetite, you know.” Gabe suppresses a scowl as he’s ushered away to the food-laden table. Maybe the topic of his first sermon will be the sin of bigotry.

Fortunately, the scent of food is enough to douse his sparking temper. After having not eaten for the better part of the day, the aroma of rich food is making Gabe’s mouth water. “Go on and take what you like,” Morrison is saying, pushing a plate into Gabe’s hands. “I’ll be the first to say that Eva’s meatloaf is absolutely splendid.” He shoots a grin at the portly florid woman standing on the other side of the table with a large metal spoon in her hand. She puts a fat-fingered hand over her heart, sighing.

“Oh, Father, you flatter me.” She doesn’t ask before scooping up a large hunk of meatloaf and splatting it onto Gabe’s plate with a noise like a brick.

Gabe opts for politeness and thanks her, only to stifle a whimper as his plate is yanked out of his hands by tiny — surprisingly strong — hands. “Why don’t I just give you a little bit of everything, hon? You must be starved after coming such a long way!” Gabe watches with a vague sense of horror as his plate is carried away down the line of the table, gaining mass at an alarming rate.

It comes back weighing probably ten pounds and piled maybe a foot high, dripping at the edges. To finish it off, Eva dumps a hearty ladleful of gelatinous gravy on top of it all. She beams brightly at Gabe. He gives her a strained smile in return, cradling his plate and limping back to the firepit before Eva can change her mind and whisk it over to the desserts as well.

“Alright, folks, gather round, gather round!” Father Morrison is waving everyone over, beckoning Gabe towards him. He goes, balancing his plate as carefully as if it were a newborn infant. It weighs about as much.

“Now, we are gathered here today to welcome a new member of the church to our little town. Everyone please extend a warm welcome to Father Gabriel Reyes.” There’s a smattered chorus of hello’s and a few cheers from the more enthusiastic of those among them. Gabe straightens his back with military grace; time to make a good first impression.

“It really is an honor to be here with all of you today.” He flashes his best winning smile as he steps forward, one that stretches his lips wide. “I just wanted you all to know how grateful I am for the warm welcome that’s been extended to me—” He sweeps his gaze over the crowd. “And I’ll do my best to serve this community in the name of our Lord.”

“With that said.” Morrison raises his hands. “Let us say Grace.”

Gabe bows his head, doing his best not to grimace down at the plate of rapidly coagulating food in his hands as Morrison speaks. 

He glances up after a hearty Amen, only to be immediately beckoned over by a man — sitting besides his wife, perhaps — beneath a nearby willow. He approaches leisurely, setting the plate down with care lest he risk tipping it over. It sinks several inches into the grass, but Gabe cares none at all, perfectly aware he’s never going to get that far down the pile of food.

“It’s mighty fine to meet your acquaintance, Father.” The man lifts his tweed cap and grins big, showing off several gold teeth. He speaks with an easy drawl. He’s got skin like weathered leather, face crinkled with smile lines, and a head of prematurely white hair. “Name of Jebediah Thompson, call me Jeb. This here’s my wife Maria.” Jeb has a strong handshake; his wife, for her part, dips her head and dimples at him, peeking up at him from beneath fluttering lashes.

Gabe’s throat constricts and he glances at Jeb, fairly certain that’s not how a lady’s supposed to act right in front of her husband, but he’s still smiling serenely, wider, even. Gabe furrows his brow but smiles back, a little nervous. “Pleasure to meet the both of you.” Then he leans in, confiding. “I get the feeling not many strangers pass through here, with such a, ah. Warm reception.”

“Oh, yes.” Maria speaks empathetically, quickly, with a voice like a bell. She strokes her fingers through her bobbed black hair. “Everyone knows everyone here, you see, hard not to with such a small town, so any new arrival is a big event. We had it as well. I used to live in Phoenix until I met Jeb,” she elbows him in the side and Jeb yelps, batting at her arm, “so I know what it’s like to come to such a small place. Don’t worry your head about it, though.” She pats Gabe’s knee, overfriendly. He raises his eyebrows at her in surprise, the corners of his mouth tugging down, which she appears to ignore. “Everyone here will love you, I can just tell.”

Gabe is almost in awe. Jeb is looking at Maria with open adoration in his eyes, though, so clearly he adores his firecracker of a wife. For lack of anything else to say, Gabe stabs at the hunk of meatloaf at the very top of his wobbling plate of food. It’s a bit like biting into a slab of crumbling chalk, even with the gravy, bland and dry and sticking to the roof of his mouth. He forces himself to swallow it down for the sake of his company.

Perhaps noticing his wince of pain, Maria smiles and leans in to whisper conspiratorially. “Eva’s a sweetheart, she really is, but don’t ever let her cook for you.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Gabe coughs, pulling his lips in as if he’s bit into a lemon. He really wishes he had something to drink; anything to wash it down.

“Father? Father Reyes?” Gabe watches as Jeb and Maria’s smiles stiffen right up, until it looks like their faces might be molded from plastic. He swivels his head to see Myrna coming up behind him, wringing her hands together, and groans inwardly. Plastering on a smile, he uses his cane to push himself up, abandoning his plate in the grass.

“Ma’am?” he says, cautious.

“Father, I was just wondering if I might have a moment of your time. In private.” Myrna shoots a tight smile at the Thompsons, but otherwise doesn’t acknowledge them.

Gabe reluctantly follows her. She leads him past the table of food, stopping just a little ways away from the front steps of the city hall. Apprehension tightens at Gabe’s chest, especially when she starts wringing her hands together.

“First of all I just wanted to apologize for, you know, them,” she says in a hushed tone. Gabe’s eyebrows furrow low, only just stifling a growl in his throat. “She just has such rotten manners for a lady, doesn’t she? So forward. Not at all becoming of a good Catholic woman.”

“Ma’am, I believe the Bible also advises us not to speak evil against one another,” Gabe bites out. Myrna immediately flushes, face going blotchy.

“I— You’re right of course, Father. Which, which reminds me of what I wanted to say to begin with.” She takes a deep breath, perhaps collecting herself. “Earlier I made a comment that could’ve been seen as, um, hateful, and I don’t want you to think I’m prejudiced. Why, the woman who owns the general store is an Arab, and I like her just fine. She’s not even Catholic! It’s only, well,” she let out a bleating, nervous laugh. “That’s just how folks are raised around here, you see, and—”

“Ohhh, I understand just fine.” Gabe grits it out, lips pulling into a smile that looks much more like a grimace. “You know, there’s a word for people like—”

He’s cut off by the grating noise of tires squealing against pavement. He whirls around to see a steel grey station wagon careening around the street corner, balanced on two tires before crashing back down. The frame looks like it’s been beaten to hell, passengers side door smashed in, windshield covered in spiderweb cracks. A splintered tree branch juts out from beneath the hood.

It’s not going terribly fast, but it’s veering wildly all over the road, leaving the scent of burning rubber in its wake. Its passengers appear to be just as wild; there’s a teen boy hanging out of each window, howling and yelling and waving at the people gathered on the village green as they swerve by.

With a noise like a gunshot, the back driver’s side tire bursts.

Whoever’s driving the car loses control. It spins out, and the crowd watches in mute horror as it comes to an abrupt, violent stop: it jumps onto the sidewalk and smashes grill-first into a lamp post.

No one moves for what feels like an eternity.

Then the driver’s side door swings wide open, and the boy who steps out whoops loudly, lifting his hands to the heavens. “Hell’s bells, didja see that?” he hollers, snatching the hat from his head and waving it in triumph.

“MCCREE!” Someone bellows so loud that it echoes all across the clearing. The boy flinches, shrinking, clutching his hat against his chest.

Two things happen then, all in a matter of seconds: all of the boys who had been inside the car throw the doors open and scatter, absolutely booking it in all directions and vanishing in between the buildings. A particularly adventurous one bolts for the river. All save for the driver, who is shoved out of the way by one of the fleeing boys and hits the pavement with an audible grunt.

At the same time, Gabe is nearly deafened as Myrna behind him lets out an ear-splitting shriek: “JONATHAN CASSIDY O’FARRELL! Don’t think I don’t see you! When you get home, your father is going to tan your hide, you understand me!?”

Standing besides the table of food with a metal spoon poised over Eva’s meatloaf, Father Morrison is pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. A massive sigh makes his shoulders heave.

Rubbing at his ear, Gabe watches as a man built like a fat brick wall stuffed into a police uniform stalks forward from where he’d been sitting beside the firepit, fists clenched as he strides towards the gently steaming car. The boy on the ground scrambles to his feet and tries to dart away, only to get wrenched back as the man snatches his wrist.

“Ow, get offa me!” The boy digs in his heels to as the man drags him back towards city hall, to no avail; he’s far outweighed. Distantly, Gabe registers that he’s wearing oversize cowboy boots. “Rosie, come on, leggo!”

“That’s Sheriff Rosenthal to you, McCree. Boy, I have had it up here with your garbage!” The sheriff looks it too, face tomato red, a vein throbbing out on his forehead. “You’re going to apologize to Father Reyes for interrupting his welcome dinner and to— who in Sam Hill does that car belong to, anyway?”

“It’s just the Junkers’ down the road, they’ve got a million of ‘em anyway—”

“And then you’re spending the night in a cell, where you can’t cause any more God— gosh darn trouble!”

People are murmuring amongst themselves as McCree is manhandled past them. They watch him through shuttered eyes; it sets Gabe on edge, somehow. He looks on apprehensively as Sheriff Rosenthal wrestles McCree towards him.

The boy is long and lanky, tawny and sunkissed. Shredded, sunbleached jeans and a denim jacket over a faded red T-shirt drape over his skinny frame. Most notably is the Stetson cowboy hat jammed on top of long messy brown hair, clearly old but well-loved, raggedy around the brim with clumsy patches in places. The band is lined with various bullet shells that look like they were plucked off the road after being run over once or twice.

Gabe is reminded of a cross between James Dean and John Wayne. It’s almost comical.

“Go on, let’s hear your apology.” Rosenthal gives McCree a shake, and Gabe has had enough.

“Look, that’s no way to handle a kid,” he snaps. The sheriff crinkles his forehead at him, lips curling slightly before he releases McCree’s arm. McCree shoots him a dirty look, rubbing at his forearm before rounding on Gabe.

“Who you callin’ a kid, grandpa?” McCree lifts his head to bare jagged teeth at Gabe, dark eyes flashing dangerously beneath the brim of his hat. Gabe crosses his arms, raising his eyebrows, clearly unimpressed.

“What’s your name?”

McCree blinks at him, seeming to actually see him for the first time. He deflates, cracked lips parting slightly. His pink tongue darts out to wet them.

“Jesse,” he says after a brief pause. “Jesse McCree.” Then, croakily, “You’re Father Reyes?” Gabe nods, and Jesse licks his lips again. “You know, I thought you’d be more of an old fart like Morrison.”

“McCree,” Rosenthal growls.

At the same time Gabe tips his head back and barks out a laugh, caught off guard. Jesse looks oddly pleased with himself. Father Morrison, meanwhile, is glaring at them with his mouth pressed into a thin line.

“I’m pretty sure Father Morrison and I are the same age.” Gabe can’t help the amusement in his voice. He has to remind himself that Jesse just stole someone’s car and smashed it into a tree in order to school his expression back into its usual stern resting state. Jesse’s grin fade along with it.

“I don’t need an apology,” Gabe begins, no-nonsense. “And I won’t lecture because I’m sure you know what you did was irresponsible and reckless.” Jesse’s eyes narrow, a muscle twitching in his jaw. “What’s more, you could’ve killed someone.”

“I knew what I was doing, we was perfectly fine—”

“Therefore,” Gabe raised his voice, not allowing himself to be interrupted. His time in the military is a boon to him here. “As a lesson in responsibility. If the sheriff will allow it, I suggest that instead of a night in a cell, which won’t teach you anything and won’t have any staying power—” He pauses, tilting his head towards Sheriff Rosenthal, who shrugs and motions for him to go on, Let’s hear it. “Instead, you’ll volunteer at the church as an altar boy. For, hmm, three months.”

Jesse gapes at him. “Wh— no, that’s a kid’s job!” His voice squeaks as he protests; his ears glow pink as Gabe outright laughs at him.

“Yes, a kid’s job. For a fool kid.” Oh, that's some serious stink-eye. Gabe smirks.

“That sounds like one hell of a fine idea, Father.” Rosenthal is bobbing his head, rubbing at his stubbly jaw. “Er. Heck. Pardon my French.” He clears his throat, and Gabe only just resists the urge to roll his eyes. “But as long as it keeps this, uh. McCree out of trouble. I think it’s a fine, fine idea.”

He claps a big, meaty hand on Jesse’s shoulder. The brim of the Stetson crumples in Jesse’s hands, lips thinning as if he’s going to pull them back into a snarl.

It’s funny. Like a little coyote baring his teeth.

“What do you think the punishment should be, Sheriff?” Gabe keeps his eyes locked on Jesse’s until the kid glances away. “If he doesn’t show.”

“Oh, I’ll show up,” Jesse growls at the ground. Venomous. “You’ll see.”

“I don’t like that tone, McCree.” Rosenthal’s hand tightens on his shoulder. “Now shut your yap. We’re taking the patrol car back to your pa’s.”

Jesse whips his head up, suddenly alarmed. “Rosie, wait—”

“Don’t worry, kid. I won’t say nothing.” Grudgingly. Strangely enough, almost fondly.

That doesn’t seem to reassure Jesse much, judging by the nervous glance he shoots over his shoulder as he’s led away. Gabe watches the pair of them go with a sense of unease, humming and stroking the hair on his chin the wrong way.

He wonders if he did the right thing. He’s only just arrived, after all.

“Making waves already, I see.” Gabe turns his head to see that Morrison has shuffled up beside him, looking thoroughly unamused. “I hope you know what you’ve gotten yourself into. That boy will make your life a living nightmare.”

Gabe snorts. “We’ve both been in the army, Father. Surely you’ve seen your fair share of punks with attitude problems. I’m surprised you haven’t dealt with him yourself.”

Morrison looks at him with tired pale eyes. “Maybe some people can’t be helped, Reyes. Some folk are just born rotten. The McCrees have got quite the reputation in this town.”

“You can’t seriously believe that.” Gabe feels himself mentally recoiling. “Everyone can be saved. Everyone.”

The kid can’t have been older than twenty, and apparently he’s already been damned to Hell. Gabe can’t wrap his head around it.

“Mmm. You’re right, of course.” Morrison sighs, shaking his head slightly. “But, we’ll see.” He barks out a short, harsh laugh.

“You’ll see.”


	2. A Real Scorcher

Stark morning light floods through the slats of the blinds and falls in stripes across Jesse’s face. He squints, accusing. Then smacks his lips, sighs and stretches, spine popping as he twists around on the couch. He still feels heavy and slow, but he knows that he won’t be able to get back to sleep. Instead he pushes himself up, scratching at the hair that’s growing in scraggly patches on the underside of his jaw.

Pa is in Albuquerque for the weekend, so Jesse had fallen asleep in the living room with the TV flickering into the night. It’s still gently murmuring now — Saturday morning cartoons. Yawning, Jesse leaves it running as he shuffles into the kitchen to grab breakfast.

The fridge is nearly bare save for a head of lettuce, a jar of mustard, and a case of Pa’s beer, so he grabs a half-empty box of Sugar Smacks out of the pantry. He eats it dry, shoving his hand into the box and munching slowly as he watches Elmer Fudd chase Bugs Bunny round in circles. After a few moments of deliberation, he gets up to fetch a bottle of beer as well; the case is still fairly full, so Pa probably won’t notice that he’s one short.

Once he’s finished his breakfast, Jesse lazes on the couch for half an hour more, suckling absently at the lip of the empty beer bottle as he watches. Eventually he rouses enough to paw around for his boots; he’d fallen asleep fully dressed the night before, only kicking off his boots before settling in for a lazy night of television. The spurs jingle as he slips them on.

It’s Saturday, which means the gang ought to be free the entire day. Well, almost the entire day; Jesse scowls as he remembers the church service he’s meant to attend that evening. The opportunity to wipe that smug smirk off the new priest’s face is his only incentive for showing up at all.

(Or maybe he wants to see it more. He recalls Reyes’ laugh, the amused glint in his eyes and the white flash of teeth.)

Jesse kicks the beer bottle into the corner of the living room where it joins the small pile that has accumulated there. Every few months, Pa will clean the house in a crazed fit of sobriety; for now, it’s littered with garbage, empty bottles and dented cans and yellowing newspapers. Jesse doesn’t spend enough time here to put in the effort of cleaning it up.

The clock on the kitchen wall reads a little past eight as Jesse snatches his hat off the counter and flits out the front door, screen rattling behind him. It’s a mile walk down a narrow dirt road to get into town. Jesse toes along the raised ridges of the tire ruts left by Pa’s truck, every so often sparing a backwards glance towards the old farmhouse that he and his father call home. Pa likes to wax poetic about how he and Jesse’s mother had bought the house dirt cheap and fixed it up into something livable, something homely, replacing shattered windows and patching up the collapsed roof. He likes to brag about how he had done most of the work, Jesse’s mother having been heavily pregnant at the time.

Jesse wonders if it’s always looked so godforsaken.

A light breeze sighs through the trees as Jesse makes it into town. First stop: the Taylor twins. Their father glares ferociously at Jesse after he rings the doorbell and asks pretty please if James and Timothy are free for the day, he would like so very much to spend time with them. The boys try to beg off breakfast, but their mother is having none of it, so Jesse wanders around the block for half an hour while he waits. He’s lucky enough to find a few half-stubbed cigarettes on the ground, and he’s smoking one down the filter as the twins make their escape and trot out to join him.

“What’s on today, Jess?” Jimmy asks, glancing guiltily over his shoulder at his house as Jesse passes him the cigarette.

“Well, Dickie said his pa was gonna let him practice shootin’ with his rifle, right, so we was gonna go and shoot some cans around.” Then, with a practiced smirk: “Then later in the day we’re gonna go to the river. Y’know, if it’s a real scorcher like yesterday.”

Jimmy swallows, shuffles a little. “Oh— oh yeah. Keen.” His ears are pinking beneath the golden ringlets of his hair.

Jesse wants to stop by Ana’s to buy a bottle of pop, amongst other things, but first they stop to pick up Eugene. He’s so grateful that they save him in the middle of a lecture from his grandma about the state of his room that he takes a drag from the cigarette stub Jesse offers him and promptly breaks into a wheezing coughing fit that sends his glasses askew. Jesse whacks him on the back with very little sympathy.

Ana turns to greet them with a wan smile as they push into the general store, the door jingling shut behind them. “How are you today, boys?” The twins and Eugene answer with a chorus of “Fine, ma’am.” Jesse scowls and tugs the brim of his hat down over his eyes; even now, Ana makes him feel like a child with so little effort.

Like Reyes had.

He feels her dark eye tracking him as he picks a bottle of strawberry pop from the cold case. The boys choose a couple of bars of chocolate for themselves. “And how have you been, Jesse?” she asks as he lays everything on the counter, rolling the burnt out stub of his cigarette between his lips. After a moment of deliberation, Jesse also takes a cherry Tootsie Pop from the jar beside the cash register. “And your father?”

“Same as always,” Jesse says shortly, biting back the urge to growl. He digs around in his pocket for the coins he swiped from Pa’s dresser the night before. “In Albuquerque for the weekend.” He slaps the change down on the counter. “Can I also get a couple of—” He tries to act nonchalant, casual. Fails, stumbles over his tongue. Ends up mumbling, “Rubbers.”

Ana raises an eyebrow at him. Jesse does his best to keep stone-faced, despite the heat in his ears.

“What brand?” she asks sweetly. Jesse can hear the boys snickering behind him, and this time he does flush.

“Aw, hell, does it matter—”

“You shouldn’t curse in public.” Jesse just about rolls his eyes into the back of his head at this new interruption, twisting his head to see precious little Fareeha slip out of the back room. “What are you buying?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know, little missy,” Jesse growls.

“You shouldn’t be here, anyway.” Fareeha crosses her arms, puts her nose up. “Mama should have banned you, after what you did.”

“Ban him from the only store in town, hmm.” Ana sounds bored, head down as she counts out Jesse’s change. She’s put all of his purchases into a little brown bag. While her gaze is turned away, Jesse sticks his tongue out at Fareeha, sneering.

She sticks hers out right back at him, pulling down her lower eyelid.

“Children, behave.” Ana pushes the paper bag into Jesse’s hands. “Take care of yourself, Jesse. Don’t get into too much trouble.”

The softness in her voice prickles up his spine, makes his teeth grit. He swallows hard and looks away. Doesn’t answer as he clutches at the bag and leaves.

The heat is startling as they step out onto the street; the back of Jesse’s neck immediately begins to prickle with sweat. “Fareeha’s such a little snitch,” one of the twins — Timmy, Jesse thinks — is saying as they walk down the sidewalk. “No wonder she wants to be a cop.”

Jimmy snorts. “Girls shouldn’t be cops anyway.”

“She can do whatever she likes, but she can do it far away from me,” Jesse growls, fumbling with the wrapper of the lollipop. He can feel eyes on him as he curls his tongue around it, staining his lips red. “Anyway. Let’s go get Johnny and then head on to Dickie’s. I wanna do some shootin’ before my ass catches fire.” The lollipop clicks against his teeth as he tugs at the collar of his shirt. “Damn, it’s hotter ‘n hell out here.”

He’s really sweating by the time they reach Johnny’s. It doesn’t help the way that his stomach flutters like it always does as he stops at the front door, raises a hand to knock. Pauses. He lifts his hat, smoothing his hair back before jamming it back on.

Johnny’s little sister opens the door, throwing Jesse for a loop. She’s maybe four, and she gazes up at him with big blue eyes. “H-hey, missy. Your big, uh, big brother home?” Jesse coughs, rubbing the back of his neck. She just stares at him. Then she turns and waddles away, leaving the door ajar behind her. “Uh— right.” Then he scrubs a hand over his mouth, scowling. Real smooth.

“Susie, who’s at the— oh, hey Jess.” Johnny turns around the corner, and Jesse grins shakily in lieu of jamming a fist into his mouth and screaming.

“Hey, man,” he croaks. “That jacket looks real swell on you.”

Johnny grins at him. Jesse wants to swoon.

Movie star handsome, Johnny’s one of the best looking guys in town. Thick-lashed baby blues and curling black hair that he always keeps slicked back, plush lips and narrow jaw. Tall — taller than Jesse, who’s used to having being at least on even footing with other guys. With the sleek leather jacket he’s sporting now, he gives the James Dean poster on Jesse’s bedroom wall a run for its money.

Jesse reaches out and grips his arm under the pretense of feeling the jacket. “That real leather?”

“The genu-iiine article,” Johnny drawls. “Aunt Helen sent it all the way from New York, I gotta phone her and say thanks.” If Jesse keeps his hand in the crook of his elbow a little too long, thumb pressing into the soft leather and firm swell of Johnny’s bicep, Johnny doesn’t say anything.

“Want me one of these some day,” Jesse murmurs. He forces himself to pull his hand away. “They look real slick. Too bad they’re fuckin’ seventy-somethin’ dollars.”

Johnny glances back over his shoulder. “My ma hears you talkin’ like that with my baby sister around, McCree, she’s gonna smack you so hard.” Jesse snorts, rolls his eyes. “Anyway, what’s going on?”

“Me and these fellas was gonna go to Dickie’s to shoot some cans,” Jesse says, thrusting his thumb over his shoulder. He rolls the lollipop between his lips, sucking it into his cheek, and feels a small thrill go through him as Johnny’s eyes dart down to his mouth for a split second. “Then afterwards we was gonna go down to the river. Y’know, swimmin’ and stuff.” He runs his tongue along his lower lip. “Thought you might wanna come along.”

That seems to give Johnny pause. He glances to the side for a moment, pursing his lips as if he’s thinking real hard. After a moment: “Yeah. Yeah, that sounds real good.” Jesse thinks he feels his heart skip a beat. Then Johnny calls over his shoulder, confident as anything, “Ma, I’m going out!”

The hungry expression he’s got on his face still has Jesse’s heart thudding in his chest half an hour later as they stroll up the long drive to Dickie’s house, gravel crunching underfoot. He inhales shakily, one word repeating in his head like a mantra: maybe, maybe, maybe.

. . .

A shortage of tea drives Gabe to the general store for the first time. He’d been living off of leftovers from the welcoming dinner for the last three days, and there’s still enough left to last him a week. However, he finally has to concede that there’s only so much bland meatloaf a man can eat before he’s driven insane, and besides, he won’t be able to sleep well without his herbal night cap.

The first thing he notices about the woman behind the counter is the way her gaze tracks him like a hawk. One dark eye peers at him from beneath the edge of her navy blue headscarf as he grabs a basket and makes his way around the store. The other is obscured by a black eyepatch.

She’s certainly a more fascinating character than Gabe ever expected from this town.

He takes his time stocking up on the basics: rice, beans, various canned vegetables, a loaf of pre-sliced bread. He thinks there’s butter in the fridge at the rectory. After this he’ll go to the butcher’s down the road to pick out a ham or chicken for the freezer, one that he can cook himself and season properly.

She watches him with an appraising gaze as he approaches the counter, leaning heavily on his cane with the basket hanging from his other arm. “Unfamiliar faces are rare around here,” she says in way of greeting. Her voice is low, accented, slightly creaky around the edges; Gabe thinks it’s well suited to the desert. “Ana Amari, a pleasure to meet you.”

“Gabriel Reyes.” He sets down the basket to offer his hand, then hesitates, bows his head slightly instead. “I’m the new pastor at the church.”

“Oh, well that explains it.” She smooths a hand over her headscarf, looking slightly amused. “I don’t generally attend.”

“Yeah, I figured.” He starts to unpack his basket for her to ring up. A letter on Ana’s side of the counter catches his eye; she must have been reading it when Gabe came in. Upside down, he can catch the words ‘lovely as ever’ when he think Ana won’t notice him looking.

“Mama, have you seen— oh.” A young girl, maybe twelve or thirteen, stops still in the doorway behind the counter, staring at Gabe curiously. She’s as dark as Ana with sleek black shoulder-length hair and narrow, inquisitive eyes.

“Oh, Fareeha. Here.” Ana ducks down, reaching beneath the counter, and comes up with a small textbook. “Always leaving your things around.” Then, seeing the starry-eyed look Fareeha is giving Gabe: “Oh, and this is Father Gabriel, the new priest at the Catholic church. Father, this is my daughter, Fareeha.”

“Pleased to meet you.” Gabe lifts an imaginary hat, and Fareeha dimples, hugging her textbook close.

“Are you the man from LA?” she blurts out. “A few of the boys in school mentioned you yesterday.”

“Oh?” Gabe quirks his lips. “One of them wouldn’t happen to be named McCree, would he?”

Immediately Fareeha’s expression crumples into disgust, nose scrunching up. “Of course not. He doesn’t go to school,” she says, scathingly. “Even if he did, I wouldn’t talk to him.”

Interesting. “And why’s that now?”

“He’s horrible.” Unintentionally, he seems to have given Fareeha a bit of ammunition; her eyes flash, incensed. “He’s rotten and a thief and a liar and—”

“Fareeha! Heavens, child, that’s enough,” Ana scolds, firmly grabbing Fareeha by the shoulders and spinning her around. “Back to your homework, now.”

“Mamaaa,” Fareeha whines, but she goes without further complaint, only peering over her shoulder at Gabe before the door swings shut behind her.

“McCree doesn’t seem to be a popular name around here,” Gabe says drily as he fishes his wallet out of his pocket.

“Their family has quite the reputation in this town.” The cash register sings as Ana totals up Gabe’s “Jesse McCree the younger is almost as much a fool as Jesse McCree, Senior. That boy gets into all sorts of trouble.” Her brow furrows, a sort of wistfulness lining her face. “He worked for me for a short time, but not a month after I hired him I caught him stealing liquor and cigarettes for his little friends. Fareeha’s never dropped it since.”

Gabe twists his mouth thoughtfully. What has he gotten himself into, indeed. “And he was never punished for it?”

“Pah! By the sheriff?” Ana waves her hand dismissively. “Don’t spread it around, but Rosenthal has a soft spot for that boy a mile wide.” Then, quietly, “It’s hard to say why.”

“Seems like all McCree needs someone to set him straight,” Gabe thinks aloud. A strategy is already piecing together in his mind — he shakes his head. What is he thinking? He’s been here for less than a week and already he wants to fix the problem child.

“Hm. This is true. And yet sometimes I think it would be easier to move a mountain.” Ana sighs, pushing the brown paper bag across the counter towards Gabe. “I do worry for him. The idiotic things he does at times — it is as if he is trying to die young.” Then she inclines her head and smiles, as if she hadn’t said anything grim. “Enjoy the rest of your day, Father. I’m sure we will speak again soon.”

. . .

The Rio Elena is one of the many offshoots of the Rio Grande. It curves slow and deep through the town of Dry Creek, staining the dry, dusty landscape green with wild grasses and weeping willows. To this day, its banks have not yet been explored in their entirety, its dark waters flowing and branching far into the remote reaches of the Chihuahuan Desert and dipping off into various underground springs. Some places along its length are only known to a select few who have claimed these secluded refuges as their own.

One such place lay several miles outside of town, about an hour’s walk as the crow flies, through desert scrub and crumbling rock and whistling reeds. A long thicket of brambles shields this particular stretch of beach, rendering it impassable by land. Still there are some who know just where to crawl to enter a tunnel of thorns that has been forged over time by clumsy hands.

The beach itself is soft yellow sand that slopes gently down into cool, lapping water. The opposite shore rises into a rocky cliff, the perfect height for jumping off into the depths of the river. Either edge of the beach is lined with weeping willows that drape elegantly into the slow current and provide blessed shade on particularly hot days.

It’s this little spot of paradise that Jesse and the boys have claimed as their own, affectionately naming it Sandy Cheeks Cove.

It’s earning its name as Jesse lies on his back with legs in the air, wet sand pushing into the crack of his ass. Johnny is on top of him, between his legs, blue eyes squinting and tongue poking in pleasure out as he drives hard into Jesse, balls slapping against his rear with every thrust. His fingers dig into the sand on either side of Jesse’s head, arms trembling slightly as he holds himself up.

Jesse can’t help the little sounds spilling out from his lips, tiny whimpers, even as he’s biting his tongue bloody to try and keep them contained. (Johnny always gets a bit spooked when he cries out too loud.) His toes curl and flex every time Johnny gets a lucky strike against his sweet spot. He feels full, breathless; even if Johnny’s aim isn’t perfect, he’s big enough that it doesn’t really matter.

A few feet away, the other boys are eating sandwiches that Dickie’s mother packed for them and passing around a cigarette. They’re naked, basking in the sun, watching with mild interest as Jesse tosses his head and groans. Just a few minutes ago they’d all been arguing over who was the sharper shot following their shooting contest earlier that day, and while he was pleased that he had been unanimously nominated as the gang deadeye for the third time in a row, he wishes they would talk about literally anything other than what they’re discussing right now.

“I mean, Johnny has a leather jacket, and we all have leather boots, and the Bible says that’s a sin,” Tim is saying around a mouthful of ham-and-cheese sandwich, gesturing with his free hand as he speaks. “But Father Morrison says not everything in the Bible needs to be taken seriously, so maybe sodomy is okay too.”

“I dunno, isn’t sodomy a pretty bad sin?” Jimmy is saying as he eyes Jesse, scratching the peach-colored fuzz above his stirring cock. “But I guess it’s fine if it’s anywhere but the ass.”

“But the Bible also says you shall not lie with man as you lie with woman.” Dickie sounds thoughtful, almost dreamy, talking in the slow, measured tempo he always does as he strokes himself.

“Yeah, but if we’re not actually laying together, then it’s fine, right? What if I’m only kneeling by his head?”

“Uhhh—”

“Will you dopes shut up for five seconds?” Johnny grits out, voice trembling. “I’m tryna— tr— hhgh—”

Jesse bites down hard on the back of his hand as Johnny buries himself deep and stays there, hips jerking as he spills inside the condom. Tears leak out the corner of Jesse’s eyes as he blinks breathlessly up at Johnny, taking in the soft-lipped, blissed-out expression on his face while he still can. His own cock throbs heavy and hot against his hip, woefully neglected.

“What’s got your panties in a knot?” Jimmy complains as he pushes to his feet, prick bobbing as he shuffles towards them.

“His girl won’t put out before marriage so he’s gotta settle for an invert,” Timmy sing-songs. Something squeezes painfully in Jesse’s chest, but he slaps on a shaky smile and stretches his hands above his head, hips arching and toes digging into the sand as Johnny pulls out, one hand wrapped around his dick to keep the condom from slipping off. He ties it off and tosses it in the vague direction of their pile of clothing, where it lands in the sand with a wet noise.

“Shaddup,” Johnny grumbles, smoothing his hair back before standing on unsteady legs and wading out into the water. Jesse watches him go until it rises above the bare curve of his lower back, mouth dry. Then he thumps his head back against the sand, closing his eyes and reveling in the feeling of sun washing over his naked skin.

A shadow falls across Jesse's face, and he cracks one eye open to glare. Jimmy is kneeling there with his dick cradled in one palm and a dopey grin firmly in place. “Johnny’s actually got a girl that he can feel up whenever he wants,” he’s saying as Jesse rolls his eyes and props himself up on one elbow, reaching out. “Think about the rest of us chumps.”

Jimmy is a good size to get his mouth around, but he also fucks like a rabbit, fast and forceful into Jesse’s throat, making him choke and gag and sputter. Drool spills down Jesse’s chin, tears leaking out the corners of his eyes; between his legs, his cock leaks and twitches.

(He wishes someone would touch him—)

“Go easy on ‘im, you’ll make him sick,” Jesse hears Johnny scolding from somewhere to his left.

“Aww, he’s fine.” Jimmy drives in deep and Jesse feels bile rising in his throat as it spasms; he swallows desperately.

“Can I have a turn after?” a timid voice pipes up; that’ll be Eugene.

“Yeah— Aw, Gene, look at you, you’re burning again! If we bring you home a lobster your nan’s gonna pitch a fit, let’s go under a tree—”

Jimmy pulls back and Jesse only just manages to close his eyes in time, hot spend splattering all over his face, across the bridge of his nose and the hollows of his cheeks and the curve of his lips. “Thanks for the warning, asshole,” Jesse grumbles, even as he licks his lips clean. Jimmy playfully shoves his head away, panting slightly.

The frogs have started to sing in chorus by the time the boys start to get dressed. Jesse feels wrung out like a cleaning rag, sore and tender, but refreshed from a dip in the river to wash himself of sweat and semen and sand. “Didja wanna see what they’re showing at the drive-in with us, Jess?” Dickie is saying as Jesse takes a pull at his now-flat bottle of strawberry pop, staining his lips red.

He tongues the bottle thoughtfully. “Yeah, I think they were gonna show High Noon tonight. Gary Cooper’s real swell in that— aw, hell.” He slaps his forehead, groaning.

“Jess?”

“I forgot,” he says glumly. “I’m s’posed to go to the church tonight to help out with the service or somethin’.”

Tim lets out a full-blown guffaw. “What the hell? And you’re actually gonna go? You, in a church?”

“Bug off. Rosie got all mad at me when we crashed the Junkers’ car so this is what I gotta do. Besides, the new priest thinks he’s a real wise guy.” Jesse hooks his thumbs in his belt, one finger tapping his belt buckle. “Gotta knock him down a peg.”

“A priest? Seriously?” Johnny looks almost admiring. Jesse only just resists the urge to puff out his chest. “Hell, that makes me almost wanna go to service an' see the show.” Then he waves a hand dismissively. “But my ma will make me go tomorrow since it’s Sunday.”

“Geez. I didn’t want your ugly mug crampin’ my style anyway,” Jesse teases, slinging an arm over Johnny’s shoulders. He tries not to feel too put out when Johnny ducks away, even as he grins back, teeth glinting in the light of the setting sun.

Jesse says his ‘see ya’s’ and splits off from the group at town hall. The clock tower reads five minutes to six; he’s going to be late. Breaking into a trot, Jesse cuts down the riverbank, taking a shortcut right along the water and scrambling up some ten feet of steep grassy cliffside once he reaches the bridge. He peers down into the dark water through the wooden slats as he crosses: calm, fathomless.

Cheery light and soft piano are already pouring out of the church’s wide open doors by the time Jesse sprints up the front steps. He ducks inside, skirting along the back wall and glancing around almost nervously; thankfully, it doesn’t look as though the service has started yet, the congregation that has half-filled the pews murmuring amongst themselves and thumbing through the hymnals. Up in the chancel, the other altar boys are slumped on the benches along the walls to either side of the altar, looking bored.

Jesse can feel eyes tracking him as he makes his way up the aisle, the back of his neck prickling uncomfortably. He ducks left into the vestry as quickly as possible.

Reyes is there. He’s standing in front of the mirror, adjusting the green cloth that’s draped over his white robe. The air stills in Jesse’s lungs for a moment. Standing there in the soft light, tilting his head as he glances at himself in the mirror, Reyes looks almost kingly, ethereal. Jesse thinks that if he didn’t believe (he doesn’t, he doesn’t, he tells himself, he doesn’t), the focus of that noble gaze might just put the fear of God in him.

“Oh, Jesse.” Reyes speaks and the illusion dissipates somewhat, though not enough to keep Jesse’s heart from stuttering as Reyes beckons him forward. “You’re late. Half thought you weren’t going to show up.”

“Yeah, well,” Jesse mutters, gaze tracking his boots. “I’m here. What am I s’posed to do?”

“Put this on.” Jesse startles as something is pushed into his arms. It’s a plain white robe.

“What?” Jesse wrinkles his nose. “Are you kidding me? I ain’t wearing this shit.”

He has the resist the urge to shrink away from the look Reyes aims at him then: thoroughly unimpressed, one eyebrow raised. “You can either wear that or you can greet the congregation naked, cowboy. Take your pick.”

He doesn’t raise to bait like Morrison does. Or hardly anyone else that Jesse knows, for that matter.

He reminds Jesse of Ana.

“Fine.” Jesse unfurls the robe with a sharp snap of fabric. He has to take off his hat to yank it over his head; it tugs uncomfortably at his shirt and makes him feel hot and irritated. “There, happy?”

Reyes just looks at him again and Jesse flushes; how is it that this man can make him feel like a child all over again with just a glance? “You forgot the belt,” is all he says, gesturing towards what looks like a soft length of rope that had fallen to the floor. Jesse’s sure he would’ve noticed it. How hadn’t he noticed it?

His fingers are trembling as he tries to tie it around his waist, the slick texture of it slipping from his fumbling grip. He’s about to toss it aside, frustrated, but steady hands pull it gently from him. “Here. Let me help you.”

Reyes doesn’t even attempt to poke fun at him for not being able to do something as simple as tie a belt as he wraps it around Jesse’s waist, and— Oh. He’s suddenly very close. His fingers brush the top of Jesse’s hip bone several times as he ties the knot on the right side of his waist. Like this, Jesse can feel the heat coming off of Reye’s body, can smell the cool wash of aftershave from his throat. His throat is tight as he swallows. He pulls away as soon as Reyes drops his hands, twisting away under the pretense of looking at himself in the mirror.

Unsurprisingly, he looks dopey as all get-out. Jesse resigns himself to the fact that no matter how he tugs at the robe, he’s still going to look like he’s wearing a flour sack.

“Come on, the service is about to start.” Reyes breezes past him, not sparing a backwards glance. “Go on up and sit by the other altar boys.” Jesse swallows his protests; so what if he has no idea what he’s meant to be doing.

If he screws this up badly enough, Reyes will regret ever making him feel like some dumb kid.

It really doesn’t help the matter that the oldest altar boy is about twelve years old and Jesse’s played ball with him and his schoolmates on multiple occasions. Jesse almost feels bad for leaning in during the opening song and calling him a four-eyed, pug-ugly son of a bitch, and doesn’t he think his mama wishes he’d never been born? ‘Almost’ being the key word. It takes a few more other choice insults, the kid’s face becoming redder by the second, and then Jesse is watching in guilty satisfaction as the boy quietly slips off the bench and circles around to the vestry, slips through the door.

Reyes doesn’t bat an eye as he starts the sermon. Jesse stifles a growl.

For his next trick, Jesse has to thoroughly muzzle his conscious. It’s about halfway through the service. They stand to sing, and glancing the other way, Jesse furtively swings one leg to the side, sweeping the feet out from under the boy standing next to him. The kid stumbles forward, arms flailing — and is promptly caught one-armed by Reyes, who’s still singing as he sets the boy upright and nudges him back into line. Jesse ducks his head against the accusatory stares being leveled at him from the pews, sneering defensively.

Besides shooting and stealing, singing is one of the few things that Jesse is any good at. So it hurts his pride to sing out of tune during the last couple of songs, as loudly as possible, screechy as a tone-deaf cat. _That_ makes Reyes wince a little, and triumph swells in Jesse’s chest. That is, until Reyes turns his head and shoots him a positively wicked smirk.

“And as you all can hear,” Reyes says as they wrap up for Communion, teeth flashing as he smiles out over the congregation, “anyone is welcome to sing for our services, even the completely talentless.” Laughter breaks out among the pews and heat blooms across Jesse’s face, burning at the tips of his ears. He longs for his hat, wants to pull it down low over his eyes.

Why had he come here?

He doesn’t even drop the incense as the congregation falls in line to receive Communion. All he wants to do is go home, drink a couple of his dad’s beers, pass out on the couch. Maybe break something. Anything to stave off this hot wash of shame crawling up his spine.

It’s a relief to yank off the robe once the service is over, angrily wadding it up into a crumpled ball. He throws it down and snatches up his hat, about to stomp out when he notices Reyes in the corner of the vestry, speaking to the boy with glasses that Jesse sent running earlier. Guilt rises in his throat like bile. He suddenly finds himself rooted to the spot as Reyes talks to the boy in a soft voice, patting his shoulder as he sniffles and wipes his puffy red eyes.

He’s still frozen as the boy pushes past him, head held low, and Reyes straightens up, fixing him with an expressionless stare. “Picking on kids? How old are you, again?” He sounds— bored. Jesse feels his face go blotchy.

“Nineteen,” he bites out, sullen.

“If you want anyone take you seriously, maybe you should act like it.” Jesse feels himself physically recoil, something cold and hollow ringing in the pit of his stomach. Reyes turns away from him, pulling the green cloth over his head. “I’ll see you at tomorrow’s evening service. You’re dismissed.”

The icy, hollow ache refuses to leave Jesse all the way home, nor as he eats a few handfuls of Sugar Smacks for dinner, nor as he curls up in front of the flickering television screen once more, curled into a tense, quivering ball. He tosses and turns, restless; eventually he retreats up to his room, kicking his boots off and shuffling in the darkness through the piles of discarded clothing and dirty dishes and empty candy wrappers and half-full pop bottles to reach his rumpled bed. He strips down to his skivvies, thumps back against the bare mattress that he’d been too lazy to stretch the fitted sheet over.

He wrestles with the blankets for a few minutes. Kicks them off eventually. It’s too hot, the fading heat of the day still breezing in through his open window. It’s a few more minutes still before he concedes that sleep won’t come easily to him and instead decides to address the unsatisfied ache that’s been plaguing him since Johnny first nudged his legs open earlier that day.

Jesse’s not really thinking about anything in particular as he slips a spit-slicked hand beneath the waistband of his briefs and takes hold of himself, toes curling in the bunched-up sheets at the foot of his bed. His eyes wander to the East of Eden poster he’s got hanging beside his bed, James Dean’s furrowed brow and pouting mouth drawing his gaze in.

Yeah, he can work with that.

He imagines that handsome face pressed against the hairy inside of his thigh, soft lips pressing against the tender skin there. Soon enough it’s Johnny, grinning up at him as Jesse squeezes his balls and makes a tight loop with his thumb and forefinger to fuck into. He whimpers, pushes his underwear down around his thighs and thinks of Johnny rubbing at his hole, pushing his finger inside just a little.

Jesse is still a little loose from earlier. It still hurts as he breaches himself dry, but not as much as the ache that throbs in his chest when he imagines how tender Johnny might be, how sweet he might whisper in Jesse’s ear as he pushes in close and gathers him up in his arms.

He’s close, hips bucking up in the tight circle of his fist as his other hand corkscrews a couple of fingers inside himself. Suddenly, instead of blue ones, there are dark, clever eyes peering fondly down at him, strong hands gripping at his hips. “Here. Let me help you.”

A minute later Jesse is panting hard, eyes wide as he trails shaky fingers through the cooling mess on his belly. James Dean seems to stare accusatorily down at him from his poster.

In his head, like a broken record, the word repeats: maybe, maybe, maybe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a million thanks again to maren for helping me through this. hope y'all enjoyed the first nasties


	3. Hair Trigger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please heed the updated fic tags!! also thank you as ever to maren for helping me write this

The braided belt of Jesse’s robe is slick as satin. Too slick; the ends keeps slipping from his hands like slithering snakes, coiling and twisting, falling between his fumbling fingers in an endless loop. He grits his teeth as he desperately tugs at the knot above his right hip, but he can’t seem to find purchase. He might as well have been trying to clutch at smoke.  
  
All the while he’s muttering under his breath, fervent, feverish. “Goddamn it, god _damn_ it.” It’s too hot in this tiny room, near stifling, sweat prickling all over his skin, burning him. One thing he’s sure of: he’ll suffocate if he can’t get the robe off.  
  
“Jesse.” Rich and rumbling in his ear, sending shivers down his spine. Strong dark hands clasp over his. They soothe away the minute tremble running through Jesse’s body. “It looks like you’re having some trouble. Let me help you.”  
  
Jesse looks down and watches with eyes open wide as those clever fingers undo the knot as easy as anything, the belt slipping from his waist and coiling to the floor with a soft thump. “That’s better, isn’t it?” Hot breath whispers over the column of his neck — Jesse squirms and suddenly the robe is slipping from his slender shoulders, three times oversize as it pools around Jesse’s feet.

He isn’t wearing anything beneath it. He looks down at his own naked body, dazed. Certain that he would’ve dressed himself before walking into a church.  
  
Maybe he says as much out loud. There’s a low chuckle, bristly whiskers tickling at his ear. “You stand before me as God created you.” Fingers dance down his side, tracing down the curve of Jesse’s hipbone, inward towards—  
  
A pathetic little noise slips from Jesse’s lips as those fingers wrap around him, gripping confidently at swollen flesh. “And this, too — this was how God created you.” Soft lips against Jesse’s cheek, a counterpoint to the sharp heat in his belly. “Oh, Jesse. What have you done?”  
  
One word slips from Jesse’s lips as he jolts into consciousness, eyes wide and hips arching as he spends himself against the inside of his briefs. One word, uttered like a prayer: “Father!”  
  
The room is still dark; it’s still early morning. Jesse desperately kicks off the covers, too hot, suffocating. Then he thumps his head back against the pillows, panting softly and staring up at the ceiling. Something like dread twists in his stomach as he slips a hand beneath the waistband of his briefs and swipes his fingers through the sticky mess he’s made there.

“Goddamn it,” he swears, breathless.

. . .

The summer heat has really started to seep through the walls by the time Jesse finally drags himself out of bed. He’d been tossing and turning since the wee hours of the night, too unsettled to drift back to sleep. Once the grey morning light starts to filter through his thin window curtains, he gives it up as a lost cause entirely.  
  
After pulling on a ratty undershirt and a pair of bluejeans that smell the least, he creeps cautiously down the stairs, alert as a hunting dog. It’s Sunday morning, so Pa shouldn’t be back from Albuquerque yet.  
  
But sometimes, if the gambling has gone particularly bad—  
  
Jesse stops dead in the threshold to the kitchen, throat going tight. There he is, in all his hairy, pot-bellied glory, dressed in naught but his underwear and a stained undershirt as he munches slowly at a burnt piece of toast and stares dead-eyed at the Sunday paper.  
  
“Hey, Pa.” Jesse keeps his voice low, quiet, because he knows that Pa will have a hangover — and sure enough, Jesse Sr. winces and scrubs a hand over his stubbled chin, a frown deepening the lines of his face.  
  
“Boy,” his Pa grunts, giving Jesse stink-eye before returning back to his newspaper. Jesse thinks that’s it, that Pa will ignore him for the rest of the morning, so he chances slinking over to the fridge in the hopes that there’s a few eggs left. Or maybe he’ll settle with one of the apples that Pa had swiped from an orchard near the city last week, wrapped up in a canvas sack in the pantry.  
  
He withdraws triumphant with a couple eggs and a stick of butter. He’s making his way over to the stove when Pa barks out, “Jesse!”  
  
Jesse goes still, setting his food down on the counter. Tries not to sound too nervous as he turns around to face his father. “Pa?”  
  
“Why in the hell are you not in school? It’s nine o’clock in the goddamn morning.”  
  
“I— I dropped out, remember, near a year ago now.” Then, more timidly: “Also, it’s Sunday, Pa.”  
  
Pa squints at him with his beady eyes, mouth set into a scowl mid-chew. Then he swallows and glances back down at his paper, checking the date. “Oh. Right.”  
  
He takes another bite of his toast, and Jesse hopes that’s it, that the matter will be dropped. He turns on the stovetop and is rummaging through the cupboards for a pan when Pa speaks up again, voice rough with phlegm. “Goddamn, Jesse, why’d you go and do a fool thing like that in the first place?” He clears his throat, shaking his head. “You know your ma wanted you to get a good education. She wanted a good future for you, boy, and you’re just throwin’ it all away like an idiot.”  
  
Fury bubbles hot and ugly beneath Jesse’s skin as it always does when Pa brings up his mother. He presses on a tight smile, showing his teeth just slightly. His voice trembles with barely-contained anger as he speaks. “Well. I just wanted to follow in my daddy’s footsteps. That’s all.”  
  
It takes a moment for Pa to get it. When he does, his face goes the most livid shade of red that Jesse has ever seen. “Jesse,” he says, almost quietly. “Come here.”  
  
Jesse goes. 

. . .

“Hell, Jess, what happened to your face?” Jesse bats Jimmy’s hand away as he reaches out to poke at the large red bruise blooming across Jesse’s left cheekbone. “You’re more ugly than ever.”

“Bug off.” The six of them walk along the railroad tracks that cut through the north end of town, teetering precariously on the rails and passing around a couple of bottles of ice-cold pop. They’re a ways past the railroad depot, heading towards a copse of maples that lay a mile or so outside of town. “Was just doin’ some work in the barn and slipped a bit. No biggie.”  
  
“Almost got yourself a real shiner.” To his right, Johnny nudges his shoulder. “Real tough guy, huh?”  
  
That cheers Jesse up immediately. He flashes Johnny a wicked grin that shows off his jagged canines, puffing out his chest. “You know it.”  
  
Real tough guy. He likes that. It’s ringing in his ears as they break away from the railroad tracks and head into the trees, dead leaves and dry grass crunching underfoot. Even in the shade of the trees it’s sweltering hot, the shrill hum of cicadas filling the air. They settle in the cradle of roots of a grand old oak. The pop bottles are soon forgotten in favor of a pack of cigarettes that Johnny fishes out of his jeans pocket.  
  
Gene is up first, his reward for being brave enough to swipe the change from his grandfather’s wallet that bought them all soda pop. He sits on one of the tree’s massive roots, his back pressed against the trunk, quivering with excitement as Jesse crawls in between his legs, giving his crotch a friendly pat.  
  
Around him, he hears the rustle of fabric, the clink of belt buckles. Everyone wants a turn. Jesse hums under his breath as he undoes Gene’s fly and tugs the waistband of his briefs just beneath the soft bundle of his cock and balls. Gene makes a noise like a wounded animal as Jesse wraps his lips around the pale pink head without hesitation, pushing the silky foreskin back with his tongue.  
  
Someone knocks Jesse’s hat off, and then roaming fingers push through Jesse’s greasy hair, tugging gently at the knots and tangles. “You need to go to Carlyle’s,” Timmy observes, somewhere to his left. “Your hair is almost as long as a girl’s.”  
  
Jesse takes Gene down to the root, nose pressed into the nest of ginger curls at the base of his cock, and works his throat around him, feeling him swell to full hardness across his tongue.  
  
“So, fellas,” he hears Dickie say behind him. “We graduate on Friday. Y’all got your colleges squared away?”  
  
“Me and Tim got into Arizona State.” Jim is tapping hopefully at Jesse’s shoulder as he speaks, and Jesse obliges, reaching out blindly until his hand is guided to the proper place. “I’m doing journalism and Tim is doing— um—”  
  
“Engineering.” Jesse can imagine Timmy shrugging, making a face, tight blond curls swaying as he tips his head. “I guess. I’m not really sure yet but I had to choose something.”  
  
“I’m studying business at University of New Mexico.” That’ll be Dickie; comfortable, predictable Dickie. “What about you, Gene? You must’ve gotten into a real good school.”  
  
“Well,” Gene begins shakily, hips moving in little stuttering movements, “I— I thought about joining the army, actually.”  
  
Jesse hums in surprise, drawing off with a wet pop. “Really?” he drawls, pumping his hand a few times, enjoying the slick velvety drag over his palm. “You gonna be a for-real GI? Thought you was gonna study math, Genie.”  
  
“My grandpa—” Gene sucks air in through his teeth as Jesse swallows him down again. “My grandpa said it’d be good for me. Put a little hair on my chest.”  
  
“What about your asthma?” Tim sounds doubtful. “Or your joints? Would they even let you join?”  
  
“I— I don’t know. Lay off.” Defensive; they drop it. Gene doesn’t like to be reminded of his catalogue of health problems.  
  
“Johnny? What you gonna be doing, where’d you get into?” Johnny doesn’t answer at first; instead he lays a hand on Jesse’s shoulder. He’s got himself out on Jesse’s other side, and cheekily Jesse tilts his head to press a little kiss to the spongy tip before wrapping his free hand around it. Now, with three needy fellas nudging at him from all sides, he has to concentrate pretty hard on his rhythm, head bobbing in time with the movements of his wrists.  
  
Johnny exhales long and low, followed by the scent of cigarette smoke. “I didn’t actually apply for school, boys.” He reaches down to nudge Jesse’s grip tighter, pushing his hips forward into his fist. “I’m plannin’ on stayin’ here for a little while. Might work for the Junkers, I dunno. Thing is, Shirley don’t graduate until next year, and I don’t wanna leave her behind.”  
  
“Wow- _wee_. You really that sweet on her?”  
  
“I reckon I am.” Johnny sounds only a little embarrassed. Unbidden, jealousy boils like acid in Jesse’s stomach, sharp and biting. “I thought. You know, fellas, I reckon I might ask her to marry me next year, when she turns 18.”  
  
The boys let out a chorus of hoots. “So you can get up her skirt faster, huh Johnny?”  
  
“Aw, fuck off.” He’s pleased with himself, Jesse can tell. He nearly gags around Eugene. Happiness that Johnny will be staying that much longer wars with hurt that Jesse has no right to be feeling; Johnny doesn’t belong to him.  
  
No one asks what Jesse has planned for the future. They all know as well as he does: he’s not going anywhere.  
  
After all, every town needs its local drunk.  
  
Half an hour later, everyone is laying back in the grass, satisfied, smoking and lazily chatting amongst themselves. Well, almost everyone; Jesse is standing apart from the rest, back turned, briefs and jeans bunched around his knees and arm braced against the trunk of a young maple as he furiously works his hand between his legs.  
  
He’s not thinking about anything in particular, just aching to get off as quickly as possible. And so his mind wanders, from shooting to blue movies to strawberry pop. To the service he has to attend in a couple hours’ time. How, despite his best efforts, he is well and truly out of ideas on how to get under Reyes’ skin, and yet Reyes still manages to get so easily under his.  
  
His personal favorite from the past month had been replacing Reyes’ prayer book with a blank-cover erotica novel that he’d snatched out of his father’s room. He’d thought it was real clever, was sure it’d be enough to make a priest turn scarlet, or at least stutter in front of his congregation.  
  
And sure, maybe it would’ve phased Morrison, but from Reyes: not a peep besides a pair of raised eyebrows and a sermon recited from memory about the sin of bearing false witness towards thy neighbor.  
  
The only prank that had ever seemed to actually work had been a one-time show. A few hours before service, Jesse had snuck into the vestry and sprinkled itching powder all over the inside of Reyes’ fancy robes. Throughout the entire service, Reyes had been twitchy, a muscle constantly ticking in his jaw, while Jesse could barely stifle his giggles. Nevertheless, Reyes’ voice had been as steady as ever, rolling and rich. Only once the congregation had gone home for the night and the pair of them were alone in the vestry did Jesse see the extent of what he had caused: a dark, angry-looking rash, spreading blotchy and sore across Reyes’ skin.  
  
“I’ll see you at service tomorrow, McCree,” Reyes had gritted out as he wadded his robes up into a ball and tossed them aside, finally giving in to the urge to scratch madly at his wrists. Jesse hadn’t answered, eyes glued to the firm tension in Reyes’ powerful arms, the generous swell of Reyes’ chest, the gentle peaks of his nipples beneath his white undershirt. He’d barely even noticed the rash.  
  
After that, Reyes had never left his vestments hanging unattended again.  
  
But the memory of him, half-naked and irate, head tossing and nostrils flaring, but with his full attention for once devoted entirely to Jesse — that’s enough to make Jesse gasp aloud and spill over his fist, free hand coming up to clap over his mouth as he moans.  
  
Oh, Jesse. What have you done?  
  
His heart is pounding in his chest as he wipes his hand clean on his briefs and tucks himself away. Gene is recounting one of his grandfather’s old war stories as Jesse plops down beside Johnny, nudging him for a puff of his cigarette and a pull of his pop bottle. It’s gone flat by now, syrupy sweet, but Jesse needs something to occupy his mouth, to soothe him. He feels shaky and off-balance, distressed for reasons he doesn’t quite understand.  
  
He’s not really listening as they chatter away around him, just lays back in the grass and dozes off, hat tipped over his eyes, occasionally scratching the hair on his belly where his shirt is rucked up. He briefly wishes that he could stay like that forever, floating and content, blissfully ignoring the nerves curling in his gut. Somewhere in the trees above them, mourning doves sing to each other, as if tempting Jesse to sleep.  
  
If only. Eventually, he pushes himself to his feet, brushing leaves and grass off of his clothes. “Awright, fellas, I gotta head off. Sunday evening service.”  
  
“Aw, what?” Johnny is almost indignant. “You’re still going to that shit?”  
  
The corners of Jesse’s lips twitch down. “Well, yeah, Rosie will crawl right up my ass otherwise. Besides, someone’s gotta teach that priest a lesson.”  
  
“Since when are you scared of Rosie?” Jimmy sneers in that casually cruel manner that’s all too common to teenage boys.  
  
“And since when did the infamous Jesse Mccree, Jr. take so long to teach a fellow a lesson?” Johnny drawls, making Jesse blush. “It just don’t add up.”  
  
“He’s just a tough military nut, that’s all,” Jesse shoots back. “Tougher ‘n Morrison—”  
  
“Naw, naw, I think I see the picture here.” Johnny grins at him, wide and a little bit unkind, Jesse thinks. “You got yourself a little crush on the priest, dontcha?”  
  
Jesse is on his feet before he even realizes it, nose crinkling and lips pulling back into a snarl. “Don’t say cheap shit like that,” he spits. He hears his own voice trembling with sudden, violent anger.  
  
The smirk fades from Johnny’s lips immediately. “Hey now,” he says, gently, pushing himself up as well, hands outstretched placatingly. “I was just—”  
  
“Fuck off!” Kneejerk reaction: Jesse shoves him hard, sending him reeling back. Arms windmilling, Johnny stumbles backwards and trips over a startled Dickie’s legs, landing hard on his ass.  
  
In a second he scrambles up, face bright red. “What the fuck is wrong with you? You wanna start shit, McCree?”  
  
“Bite me, O’Farrell.” Jesse snatches up his hat and jams it over his sweat-matted hair as he whirls around and stomps away, fallen branches snapping underfoot. “I don’t wanna look at your fuckin’ ugly face anymore.”  
  
“Fucker—” The wind is suddenly knocked out of him as Johnny barrels into him from behind, sending them both sprawling to the ground. Jesse’s hat goes flying. Snarling, Johnny straddles his stomach and grabs a painful handful of his hair, winding his other hand back in a fist. Out of pure instinct, Jesse’s arms shoot up to cross over his face, breath coming short and fast as he recalls the sharp crack of pain against his cheek earlier that morning.  
  
No more follows. Above him, Johnny slowly lowers his arm, brow set low and lips pressed thin. “Get over yourself,” he grunts, shoving Jesse’s head back against the ground before pushing off of him.  
  
“Jesus Christ,” one of the boys says, hushed.  
  
Jesse just lies there for a moment, heart racing in his throat. He gets up slowly, reaching for his hat. He clutches it to his chest like a shield. It takes almost too much effort to raise his head and look over to where Johnny has his back to him, hands clenched into fists at his sides. The other boys carefully avoid Jesse’s gaze as he stands there, shoulders heaving.  
  
Unbidden, unwanted, hot angry tears begin to gather at the corners of his eyes. He turns on his heel and starts to trudge back towards the railroad tracks, back hunched as they roll fat and ugly down his burning cheeks. He hopes he’s out of earshot before he starts snivelling like a child.  
  
It’s a long, lonely walk back to town, no company but his throbbing cheek and the sweltering heat.

. . .

  
Steam wafts up out of the delicate china cup as Ana pours Gabe another cup of tea, the fresh scent of hibiscus filling the air. This tea is nothing like Gabe has had before, bright red, tart and bitter. Ana had called it _karkadé_ , a _tisane_ made from the outer whorl of the roselle hibiscus flower. While strange to him, Gabe finds that he enjoys the oddly medicinal taste.  
  
“A few more cups of this and my leg will be good as new.” He grins as he accepts the cup with a nod of thanks.  
  
“Ah, if only.” Ana dips her head to take a draught from her own cup. “I would be sitting on my own grand fortune if I could sell a tea that cures war wounds.”  
  
“Is that what—” Gabe taps his right brow. “That’s from?” Then, quickly. “Pardon me if that’s too forward.” Though so far, Ana has never struck him as a particularly tight-lipped woman.  
  
“No, no.” She shakes her head, lets out a quiet laugh. “If only it were so easy to explain. No, my family left Egypt the year before the war broke out. This,” she smooths two fingers over the band of her eyepatch, “is a gift from my neighbors, back when Fareeha and I lived in Tucson. Lovely couple, French, you know. The woman—” Ana clucked her tongue. “Poor girl. Went mad. Stabbed her husband to death. I went to check the commotion and became collateral.”  
  
Gabe sits back, eyebrows raised. He has had tea with Ana once or twice a week since he moved to Dry Creek, and the more he talks to her, the more he realizes that there is very little that she hasn’t seen before. It perhaps explains why she seems so wise beyond her years, despite her and Gabe being roughly the same age.  
  
“Good God,” he says after a moment. “Well, at least you made it out alive.”  
  
“Mmm. And thankfully Fareeha was at school, so she didn’t have to witness the violence.” Ana’s lips purse on the rim of her teacup, eyelids slipping shut for a moment. “Anyway. That’s enough of me. How have your services been, Gabriel?  
  
“They’ve been well enough, I suppose.” Gabe swirls his cup gently, watching the red tea lap at the sides. “I knew full well how sleepy such a small town would be, but I’ll admit I’ve been having trouble keeping busy.” He lets out a small chuckle. “I’ve been almost grateful when McCree decides to pull some prank in the middle of service. It at least keeps things interesting.”  
  
He, of course, does not mention the long hours he lays awake at night, eluded by sleep or pursued by nightmares. Nor does he mention his haze of apathy during the day, when there’s naught to do but prepare for service or pray. All the while his leg aches and throbs, aggravated by the heat and his own carelessness. (He’s gone through too many tins of Bayers in the last few weeks, certainly more than he was prescribed.) So he counts the occasional distraction — tea time with Ana, a visit to a bedridden child’s house, writing letters to his mother — as a blessing.  
  
Ana lets out a snort. “You did not seem so enthused when you came into my store moaning for some remedy for that awful rash he caused you. I still wonder whether he went to the trouble of mixing up his own itching powder, or if the little brat managed to steal some of my supplies without my notice.”  
  
“Hmmm.” Gabe sips his tea, smacks his lips. “That boy is a natural troublemaker.”  
  
Ana clucks her tongue, shakes her head. “That’s not even so much the problem,” she says, voice confiding. “He’s got absolutely no one to keep him in check. His father in in Albuquerque most of the week, as far as I know, working or gambling, and drunk most of the time besides that.”  
  
Probably beats him, Gabe thinks and Ana doesn’t say. “His mother?”  
  
“Dead. Or— just gone, Mister McCree insists. Apparently she just disappeared when the family was in the city for a weekend.” Her brow crinkles with something akin to sorrow. “I knew her, for a time, back when Jesse was just a young boy — they were a sweet family. She did not seem the sort to just abandon everything.”  
  
“Well,” Gabe muses, “if her husband is a drunk.”  
  
“As far as I know, he wasn’t. Not until she left. That is when his tab at my store opened.” She sighs. “And it has not closed since.”  
  
The pair of them fall quiet for a moment, ruminating on mysteries they know very little about. Finally, Ana breaks the silence, thin eyebrows raised.  
  
“You surprise me, Gabriel. You’ve told me you were some expert tactician in the war, and yet here you are, trying to fix this boy without knowing the slightest thing about him. What is the saying — cut the problem at the roots?”  
  
Gabe has the grace to concede that point, grimacing and ducking his head. “Perhaps mistakes were made,” he says gravely, in his best impression of an aging politician. He keeps a straight face until Ana cracks a grin.  
  
After that, their conversation meanders from topic to topic: the medley of tea samples that Ana recently ordered from an upstart company in Oregon and that she encourages Gabe to try when they arrive; the state of Gabe’s parents back in Los Angeles, and how wonderful it is that they’ve finally paid off their house; the crate of medicinal marijuana that has been sitting in the general store’s storage room for years after its sale became illegal and that Ana is still unsure of what to do with.  
  
At one point, Fareeha comes in from watching the front counter, peeking in through the door. She has a fat orange cat dangling from her arms, and she blushes at Gabe before asking Ana if she can pretty please go down to the riverfront with a few of the girls from her class.  
  
Ana’s brow furrows. She beckons Fareeha over, murmurs something in her ear in a language Gabe can’t understand, soft and melodic. Fareeha frowns and nods, fingers stroking worriedly through the cat’s thick fur. “I know, Mama,” she mumbles back eventually. “I’ll be careful.”  
  
She dimples shyly at Gabe before plopping the cat on the ground and skipping back out into the storefront. If Ana notices the inquisitive look that Gabe sends her, she doesn’t acknowledge it.  
  
“Time for me to go back to work, then,” she says with a heavy sigh, pushing herself to her feet. “It was lovely having you, Gabriel — I hope we will meet for tea again soon.”  
  
Gabe nods, reaching for his cane so that he can slowly ease himself up. “I’m sure we will. In the meantime — stay well, Ana. Oh, and—” He gently nudges the cat out of the way with his cane before he can trip over it. “Send my regards to Reinhardt, won’t you?”  
  
Ana lets out a gasp of mock surprise. “Why, Father! Reading a woman’s private letters like that — so unbecoming of you.”  
  
“Private letters that the woman keeps in plain sight on her front counter,” Gabe shoots back with a grin. “Send him my regards nonetheless.”  
  
“Hmpf. Scoundrel.” She walks him to the front, settles on her stool behind the counter. Primly folds one of the letters in question in half and sets it aside as if to say, So there. “Until next time. _Ma salama_ , Gabriel.” Go with peace.  
  
I’ll do my very best, Gabe thinks. “And God be with you, Ana.”

The bell jingles as the door swings shut behind him.

. . .

McCree is late. He arrives five minutes before service is to start rather than the half an hour that Gabe generally insists on, slinking into the vestry with an almost guilty air about him. “Punctuality, Jesse,” Gabe clucks his tongue. Rather than his customary sneer and retort, Jesse just lets out a shaky breath, ducking his head as he shuffles towards the hanging robes.

Gabe frowns, concern ticking at his brow. “Nothing to say for yourself, then?” He gentles his voice just a touch. Finally Jesse raises his head, face crinkled into a scowl, and Gabe’s breath catches. Jesse’s eyes are red-rimmed and puffy, he’s clearly been crying — more worrying, though, is the large red bruise spread across his left cheekbone, swollen and yellowing around the edges. “What in the world did you do to yourself?”  
  
“Nothin’ big,” Jesse mutters, movements sharp and jerky as he yanks his robe over his head. “Just slipped up when I was doin’ some work in the barn.”  
  
Gabe narrows his eyes. “Looks painful.” Looks like you were backhanded across the face, he doesn’t say.  
  
Jesse shrugs, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “Like I said: It’s nothin’ big.” His voice trembles slightly; Gabe doesn’t think he’s ever seen Jesse so upset.  
  
“Real tough guy, huh?” Gabe murmurs. He’s almost tempted to reach out and tilt Jesse’s face to the side so he can get a better look at the damage. Strangely enough, Jesse jerks back as if he can sense Gabe’s intentions, cheeks flushing.  
  
“Whatever.” He seems oddly flustered as he shoves past Gabe, the vestry door slamming shut behind him. Gabe watches him go, twisting his lips back and forth.  
  
From his strange behavior, he’s expecting Jesse to do something exceptionally disruptive during service. He’s thoroughly surprised when instead Jesse is on his best behavior for the entire hour and a half, the very image of a good Catholic boy. He draws no attention to himself, head down and voice soft as he stands and sings along with the other altar boys. He’s almost _sweet_. Gabe would count it as a blessing if it didn’t worry him so much.  
  
In fact, Jesse doesn’t make so much as a peep until after the service. Gabe is disrobing and carefully folding his vestments over the back of a chair when Jesse shuffles over toward him, hands clasped in front of himself.  
  
“Reyes—” Jesse stops, corrects himself. “Father.” Gabe’s eyebrows raise to his hairline. Something really must be wrong for Jesse to be addressing him properly. “Can I, uh, confess something?”  
  
Gabe blinks. “Go ahead,” he says cautiously.  
  
“I meant—” Jesse flushes. “In the confessional. Y’know.”  
  
“Oh. Right.” Gabe clears his throat, still off-put by Jesse’s strange behavior, but he pulls himself together quickly. As far as he knows, this is just another one of Jesse’s foolish pranks. “Come on then.”  
  
Jesse seems nervous as Gabe leads him over to the confessional booth, shuffling his feet and plucking at his shirt. Their footsteps echo off of the adobe walls. The nave is empty, softly lit by the late afternoon sun that spills through the high windows. Everyone would be headed home now for Sunday dinner with their families; not even the drifter who occasionally sleeps on the pews is here tonight.  
  
Gabe slips into his respective side, and after a moment’s hesitation he hears Jesse follow suit, the wooden bench creaking as he settles down. There’s a small candle resting on the ledge just below the screen that separates them; Gabe lights it, watches it flicker to life before shaking out the match. He leans forward to close the door, and the booth is cast into sudden darkness save for the warm, wavering light of the single candle.  
  
“Uh, so.” Jesse sounds anxious, hesitant. “I’m not really— I ain’t done this before, and, uh—”  
  
“In the name of the father,” Gabe prompts. Patient.  
  
“Right—” He recites the sign of the cross, then falls silent again. Gabe’s about to open his mouth to urge him on when he stutters out, “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”  
  
More silence. Gabe decides to let Jesse go at his own pace, staring straight ahead at the closed door of the confessional booth. Then—  
  
“I— I got a lot on my mind, lately.” His speech is low, mumbling. Gabe has to lean in a bit closer to the screen to hear him properly. “See, for years I been having. Well, sinful urges.”  
  
You don’t say, Gabe thinks. “What sort of urges might those be?” Gabe says when Jesse doesn’t elaborate.  
  
“Urges.” Gabe hears the slick noise of Jesse wetting his lips, the nervous tap of his foot. “For other men.”  
  
Oh. Gabe tips his head back, swallowing, closes his eyes briefly. This is a familiar scene.  
  
“It’s— I been like this since I was young. I never liked girls the way my friends did. My best friend, Johnny, he would talk about kissin’ Peggy Lee from the class above ours, or Nancy from the class below, an’ I, I would think about kissin’ him.” Jesse’s voice is growing gradually less quiet, more confident. Gabe thinks that he ought to tell him that he needn’t go into such depth; instead he just listens, immobilized.  
  
“Me and my friends, we go swimmin’ a lot. And when I’m there, all I can think about is how much I wanna— how much I wanna touch their bodies. How much I wanna kiss their lips.”  
  
This is inappropriate. Gabe will stop Jesse from saying anything more. After all, there’s no reason for him to provide such graphic detail about his intimate wants and desires, no matter how sinful they might be. Jesse is probably trying to unnerve him.  
  
(It’s almost working.)  
  
He stays silent.  
  
“Sometimes I do. Y’know.” Jesse lets out a low chuckle. “I thought that when they first found out, they would beat the pulp outta me for bein’ a freak. Turns out, that didn’t matter so much to them as gettin’ sucked off.” Gabe puts his fist to his mouth, sinks his teeth into his knuckles. Muffles his sharp inhale. He really should be cutting Jesse off right about now—  
  
“Hell, just today.” Jesse’s really picking up steam, growing bolder by the second. His voice is trembling for a different reason now. “Just today, me and the guys went down by the railroad tracks, and I showed ‘em all a good time. They’re good guys, y’know, they deserve it. And I love— I love to do it, too.”  
  
Gabe hears the clink of a belt buckle, the rustle of leather slipping over fabric. He closes his eyes, stifling a whimper in his fist. What in the hell is he doing, he mouths.  
  
“I love to— get my mouth on ‘em. I like how it tastes. I like how hot and heavy it is in my mouth, ‘specially when they get all eager and push down my throat. I love that, makin’ ‘em lose control like that.” Gabe can imagine it far too well: this wild boy, with his long limbs and untamed hair, on his knees, peering up with dark adoring eyes. All for Gabe—  
  
“I, ah, sometimes if he’s feelin’ real randy, Johnny’ll fuck me.” Gabe nearly chokes on his own breath. “My best guy, that’s Johnny. He’s got a girl, but she don’t put out, so poor Johnny, sometimes he just needs a warm place to fuck.” Panting breaths, the slick slide of skin on skin. Jesse must’ve spit into his palm at some point. “That’s a real special treat. Johnny’s a big guy. Makes me ache so good after. I love it so much.”  
  
Jesse lets out panting little moan, and only then does Gabe become aware of how hard he is, stiff and chafing at the front of his slacks. He drags a hand over his mouth, rubbing his stubble the wrong way, settles both hands on his knees. He’s an ordained father. He shouldn’t be listening to this, shouldn’t be feeling like this. Not for this boy.  
  
Jesse’s still speaking. “Fills me up so perfect. Yeah, it hurts a lil’, but that’s just how it is, right, and it hurts real, real good— oh, fuck!” Gabe snaps opens his eyes and turns his head just in time to see Jesse’s face pressed against the screen, eyes squeezed shut and pink lips parted in a rapturous moan. In the soft candlelight, he looks like a masterpiece.  
  
As he watches Jesse come, all Gabe can think is that if it were him, he wouldn’t make it hurt. He would make it so good for Jesse.  
  
The only sound in the confessional now is Jesse’s soft panting breaths as he slowly comes down from his orgasm. Gabe watches his soft-mouthed face for longer than he should before he finally manages to tear his eyes away, staring up at the dark ceiling of the booth rigid and wide-eyed.  
  
If he closes his eyes, he knows he’ll see the the imprint of Jesse’s fervent pleasure on the back of his eyelids. Even now, he can’t escape the image of it, of how good he could make it, Jesse coming apart keening and blissful beneath him.  
  
He can’t do this. He is at peace with who he is and who he loves, but society at large is not. What’s more, what kind of priest would he be if he so easily succumbed to pleasure of the flesh from someone nearly twenty years his junior, someone clearly in need of proper guidance?  
  
“Thank you, Father.” Jesse’s breathy voice startles Gabe out of his reverie. “My conscience is a lot clearer now.”  
  
“That’s.” Really not how it works. “Lord above.” Gabe has to take a moment to collect himself, to make sure that his voice is steady. He’s glad for the darkness in the booth, for the screen between them; it’s easier to make it seem as though he was unaffected. “Usually to atone for your sins, you’re assigned a penance.”  
  
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Jesse straighten up, the bench creaking on the other side of the partition. “A what now?”  
  
Gabe continues on as if he hadn’t said anything. “For your penance, I want you to stop and think for once. I.” He breathes out hard through his nose, suddenly exasperated. “I want you to think about why you’re doing all of this, Jesse. The pranks, the misbehavior, the— this. Think about what exactly you’re trying to prove. What exactly you’re trying to accomplish.” He pinches the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “Why are you doing this, Jesse?”  
  
For a few moments, he’s met by stony silence. Then a muttered, “I dunno.”  
  
Gabe barks out a dry laugh. Of course. “I think I have some idea.”  
  
For some reason, that’s what sparks Jesse’s volatile temper. He snarls and pushes out of the booth in an explosion of movement, the door slamming shut behind him, casting Gabe once more into candlelit darkness. He listens for the angry stomp of boots over the stone-tile floor, the heavy thud of one of the front doors slamming shut. Then silence.  
  
Gabe is left with a headache brewing just behind his eyes and a dull ache straining at the front of his slacks, hands curled into tight fists atop his knees. He allows himself a few minutes to calm himself, focusing on keeping his breath steady and his heart slow. “Oh, Jesse,” he rumbles, thumping his head back against the wall of the booth. “What have you done?”  
  
Finally, he leans forward to blow out the candle, casting the confessional into complete darkness.  
  
It’s no surprise to him when Jesse doesn’t show up for service the next day. Or for the service after that, or the one after that.

 


	4. The County Fair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to maren as always, and thank you guys so much for your patience! I know this chapter took a little longer, but it's also twice as long as the others have been, so i hope that makes up for it
> 
> also, please note that there are incidents of blatant racism and of vaguely dubious consent in this chapter - proceed with caution

“Checkmate.”

Jack squints down at the board through his half-moon reading glasses, tongue poking out the corner of his mouth in concentration. His mouth sets into a dismayed grimace; Gabe has managed to sneak a measly pawn through his scattered defenses and plant it right before his king. Jack’s options are limited; if he takes the pawn, his king will be beset by a bishop lurking at the far edge of the board. If he tries to escape, a squatting rook will swallow the king whole. His queen will not be able to return in time to prevent calamity.

With a full-bodied sigh, Jack reaches out and flicks the black king onto its side. “Close game.” Gabe has to agree; his king had been one move away from being gutted by Jack’s queen. It’s refreshing to have met someone who can provide a challenge for him for once. “Another?”

“Mmm.” Gabe lifts his mug to his mouth only to find it empty. “Yes, one moment. More coffee.” As he gets up to putter about the kitchen, Jack begins to reset the board.

“That’s your third one today, Gabe. And you hate coffee. You’ve not been sleeping well?” he calls from the common room.

Gabe doesn’t answer at first, lip curling as he pours himself a fresh cup. It’s lukewarm at this point. It won’t be at all pleasant to drink. What’s more, if Jack — who, while smart enough, tends to be a bit oblivious — has noticed he’s tired, then it must be painfully obvious.

“Just, ah. The heat, I suppose.” It isn’t a lie. With July rolling forward at steady pace, the temperatures have only climbed higher and higher; the thermometer at town hall had read 113 degrees the other day. Gabe had spent a good deal of that day with his feet submerged in a tubful of cool water, eyes dry and feverish with heat.

“And.” Gabe hesitates, shuffles back into the common room with his mug cupped in both hands. He peers down into it for a moment. “From one old soldier to another, the nights aren’t always the kindest to me.” Also not a lie; simply not the full truth.

“Ah.” Jack’s thin lips press into a sympathetic frown. “I understand. The battlefield isn’t a place the mind lets go of so easy.”

Gabe isn’t about to tell him how he has also been haunted by that one evening in the confessional for weeks. How some nights he bolts awake, panting and shaking not from visions of gore and death but from memories of Jesse’s pink lips parted in the throes of orgasm, the sweet little sounds he had made echoing in his skull. Just that morning, early enough that moonlight was still streaming in through his window, Gabe had been awoken by a firm ache throbbing hot and impossible to ignore between his legs. He’d tossed and turned for over an hour before finally giving in and rolling onto his belly to rut against the mattress, shoving his hand beneath himself at the last second to catch his mess.

Not only is it highly unbecoming of a priest, it’s embarrassing for a man his age to have been so unsettled by some punk kid who had merely decided to take his dumb stunt a step too far. Decided to take his little _crush_ a step too far. Jesse hadn’t exactly been subtle, what with his blushing and staring and juvenile pranks, vying for Gabe’s attention like a schoolboy might yank at a girl’s pigtails.

Gabe should have been above the whole thing, and yet. He’d actually found it almost— _flattering_.

Maybe he’s just lonelier than he realized.

He sighs as he settles down on the couch. “That McCree boy’s been a little troublesome as well,” he admits, taking a large gulp of his coffee and trying not to make a face at the taste. He raises his hand in a cutting motion as soon as he sees Jack raise his eyebrows and open his smarmy mouth. “Don’t start.”

Jack grins. “I hate to say I told you so, but—”

Gabe kicks his shin under the table. Jack gasps at him in false outrage and kicks him right back, prompting Gabe to squash his toes with the heel of his foot until Jack yields. “You and the rest of this town might have, but I’m not about to subscribe to the notion that this _boy_ — he’s only nineteen, Jack — can’t be helped at all. I’ve just approached it the wrong way.”

They’ve switched colors; Gabe’s gaze flickers down as Jack pushes a white pawn one space forward. “And as I’ve said before, I tried for years to get him in line,” Jack shoots back. “He’s just a troublemaker, through and through. Like father, like son, every town’s got its bad bunch—”

Gabe shakes a finger in his direction. “And that’s exactly what I think half the problem is! Boy’s got no guidance to speak of, and it isn’t as if anyone here will give him the time of day.” As he speaks, he mirrors Jack’s move, edging a black pawn forward at the opposite end of the board. “Furthermore, he doesn’t seem to have anything to do beyond run around with his little friends—”

“Wreaking havoc everywhere they go, yes,” Jack grunts. “That O’Farrell boy is a bit of a bad one too, but his mother at least keeps him in check. Can’t imagine what the little red-headed kid is doing running around with a lot like that either.”

“The point being,” Gabe interrupts, “Jesse must be bored out of his skull. And no offense, Jack,” he adds in a tone that is fully intended to offend, “but I think he needs a better guiding hand than a hard-ass drill sergeant with no regard for sensitivity or subtlety.”

Jack glowers at him, and Gabe pays the price for his insult by losing two of his pawns in quick succession. He must be more tired than he thought; he’s getting sloppy. “What would you suggest then, _Corporal_?” Jack shoots back.

Gabe only just resists the urge to stick his tongue out at him. “I think, _Sergeant_ , that he needs a guiding hand from someone who _isn’t_ an authority figure. Being told what to do clearly rubs him the wrong way. He needs someone who will engage him as an equal but at the same time nudge him in a better direction in the one he’s heading.” He catches Jack staring at him and scowls. “What?”

“I think,” Jack sends his rook forward, “you’ve been thinking about this far too much. Why do you care so much about this one particular boy? What is he to you?” He tilts his head. “If you ask me, you seem just as bored as he is.”

In lieu of answering, Gabe takes one of Jack’s errant knights with a dramatic clatter. Jack glances down, mouth pooching out into a moue. “How is the garden coming along?” Gabe asks, faux-sweetly.

Thankfully, Jack takes the sudden change of subject in stride. It’s something Gabe likes about Jack; he doesn’t push. “Roses are wilting from the heat,” Jack grunts. “Not much I can do about it besides spray ‘em with water every now and then.” He hums as he moves his bishop for the first time. “Squash and watermelon are growing real fast. Oh, and the heat’s been killing all the slugs that were eating the strawberries, so I might not have to put up copper wire after all.”

“Mmm.” Farmer boy, Gabe thinks. “If I bought chamomile seeds, would you tend to them? Ana has been teaching me how to make my own teas, but I’ve got no green thumb of my own.”

Jack nods slowly, leaning back and considering the board. “That ought to be fine. There’s an open space next to the herbs, a good two square feet or so.”

Gabe stares at him. “We have an herb garden?”

“Well, yes, rosemary and parsley, uh, basil, borage, cilantro—”

Gabe makes a small noise of distress. “We’ve had herbs readily available all this time, and you still choose to roast unseasoned chicken.”

“Well. Well!” Jack crosses his arms over his chest, defensive. “I like the natural flavor in food, that’s all.” Then he smirks, as if he knows he’s about to say something Gabe will hate. “As God intended it, and all—”

“God as my witness, Jack, if I have to eat bland chicken for the fifth night in a row, I may go into a crazed frenzy of passion.” To demonstrate, he violently knocks over one of Jack’s bishops with a pawn, sending several other pieces toppling in the process. “There may be casualties—”

“Alright, alright! When I’m cooking tonight, you’re perfectly welcome to oversee the proceedings—”

“It’s not that hard, just rub it with salt and pepper, sprinkle in some basil and thyme, shove a couple of twigs of rosemary up the thing’s ass—”

Jack bursts out laughing. “Hell’s bell’s, Gabe!” Gabe can’t stop the smile that tugs at his lips either, as much as he tries to keep a straight face. He covers it up by taking a long pull from his coffee mug, in considerably lighter spirits than he had been minutes ago.

Eventually Jack glances back down at the board, then reaches out to push a rook forward. “By the way— check.”

. . .

  
“You see, I thought he didn't love me, and that made me feel awful. Girls love their fathers terribly.”

“Do they?”

James Dean’s dark lips pout thoughtfully onscreen. Jesse watches them, transfixed, eyes half-lidded and mouth hanging open slightly. He’s watched East of Eden maybe six times since it came out in April, and he still only has a basic grasp of the plot.

Jesse’s not comfortable, exactly, but he’s the most content he’s been in months. One of Eugene’s skinny elbows is jammed into his side, and in the back seat Jimmy and Timmy are hissing at each other, probably vying over the scarcest amount of legroom with Dickie as the reasonable mediator. It’s dark outside, the odd cloud occasionally lapping at the edges of the moon. They’re all piled into Johnny’s father’s tiny Buick, which hardly has room for four people, let alone six. It might have been more convenient for them to lay a blanket down on the hillside that overlooked the drive-in, but, Jesse had argued, what kind of suckers went to a drive-in theater without a car?

It didn’t actually matter to him, car or not: but this arrangement gives him an excuse to pillow his head against Johnny’s shoulder, the swell of muscle firm and warm beneath his ear. He's practically plastered up against Johnny’s side — has to be, for all of them to fit — and he doesn't mind in the slightest.

It had been a trying exercise in humility to approach Johnny on the street a few days after Jesse’s outburst. Shirley had been with him, too, and she’d shot Jesse a dirty look as he shuffled up to the pair of them, hands jammed into his pockets and hat shielding his eyes.

“Whataya want,” Johnny had said, glowering in that disaffected way that Johnny is so good at and that Jesse had never wanted to see directed at him.

He’d mumbled, fumbling with the insides of his pockets. “Just. Wanted to talk to you for a minute, that’s all. In private.”

For a moment he’d thought Johnny would refuse. Sneer at him, tell him to get lost. Then Johnny had sighed, tipped his head back and looked to the heavens. Turned to Shirley and told her he would only be a minute or two before ducking around the corner with Jesse.

Apologies were not Jesse’s forte. Fortunately, Johnny had been content with a whispered, “I’m sorry, I messed up real bad,” and the promise of the use of Jesse’s mouth behind the rickety wooden school bleachers later that day. A month later, as the mid-July heat slowly baked the town alive, it was as if nothing had ever happened.

“Dad punished me. Not badly, I guess. But I felt he shouldn't have punished me at all. I felt he should have loved me more because I did it. But he didn't. Isn't it funny?”

Julie Harris is pretty enough, Jesse supposes, but she’s got nothing on Dean’s squinting, heavy-lashed stares, or the sultry plush of his mouth. If he’s really feeling it, sometimes Jesse can pretend that he’s at the receiving end of that piercing gaze, that he is someone worthy of being kissed by those lips and cradled in those strong arms.

“You guys hear that Dean’s comin’ out with a new movie in the next few months? I saw it in the paper. ‘Rebel Without A Cause’ — looks like it’s gonna be a real good time. Color and everything! ” To his right, Johnny makes a politely interested noise. A hand starts creeping along the inside of Jesse’s thigh, slow and confident. Jesse makes a small noise of annoyance and bats it away. “Not right now, Johnny, I’m watchin’ the picture.”

“Aw, c’mon. I been real randy all week. Just use your hand, you can still watch.”

“You can use two hands,” Jimmy says from behind him, eagerly jumping on the chance. “If that’s how it’s gonna be.”

“No— fuck off, guys, I’m tryna watch the goddamn thing,” Jesse snaps, shoving Johnny’s wandering hands away only to have them come right back. “Use your own fuckin’ hand.”

“Don’t be like that. First Shirley won’t put out and now you.”

“Ah—” Jesse squirms as Johnny turns into him and presses him against the seats, huffing against his neck and slipping a groping hand between his legs. This is new — Johnny has never been so tactile. It’s as if he’s been studying up on how to push all of Jesse’s buttons, and Jesse hates himself for it, but it’s working. He lets Johnny touch him, squeezing and stroking him before he comes to his senses.

Johnny lets out a whine when Jesse clamps his legs together. “C’moooon. What do we keep you around for, anyway?”

It’s said jokingly, but a hot rush of hurt tightens Jesse’s throat and steels him enough to shove Johnny away by the shoulders. “For nothin’, apparently,” he growls, tightly crossing his arms and legs and glaring back up at the screen, blinking back the tears that prickle at his eyes.

Embarrassingly enough, it only takes two or three plaintive apologies from Johnny — “I didn’t really mean it, Jess, you know I didn’t. You’re my best friend, man” — for Jesse to open right back up. He thinks he should feel worse about that fact that it takes so little to make his legs fall open, but he can’t really be bothered to worry about it with his face buried in Jimmy’s lap and Johnny draped over his back, driving in hard and deep. They’re crammed into the back seat, Timmy having been exiled to the front with Eugene, while Dickie has been bribed out of the car entirely with a couple of cigarettes. He smokes and leans against the back right window, smiling and nodding at the occasional passerby as if the Buick isn’t rocking erratically against him.

They finish up just in time for Jesse’s least favorite scene in the entire movie. Still he watches transfixed as he uses his shirt to wipe between his legs, getting rid of the worst of the stickiness which had only been made worse by the fact he hadn’t brought any condoms with him. His heart clenches in his chest as he watches Cal hunker down over the dining table, shoulders trembling with choked-back tears as he clutches a thick stack of cash in his hand — his last-gasp attempt at earning his father’s favor. Jesse finally looks away, jaw set — some things just can't be bought.

As he’d come, hunched shuddering and groaning over Jesse’s back, Johnny had pressed his lips against the back of his neck and gently stroked his fingers through his coarse hair. It had left Jesse trembling; he can’t remember the last time he’d been touched so gently.

He is still trembling as he accepts a drag from the cigarette that is being passed around.

_Maybe, maybe, maybe._

If this is all that he could ever have, he thinks, that would be alright with him. It’s not what he wants, but it’s good enough for someone like him. He’s not about to push for more, too afraid of destroying what he already has.

Like he’d done with Reyes, he thinks moodily, smoke curling out of his lips like an ornery dragon. He bats away Timmy’s hand when he tries to make a grab for the cigarette, sending a clear message: this is his now, light up another.

Following that late afternoon in the confessional, Jesse had gone home and cried himself to sleep, more out of embarrassment than anything else. Then he’d woken early the next morning and immediately ignored Reyes’ advice to _think_. It would only drive his mind in frustrating circles. He knows he’d only been trying to get a rise out of Reyes. To unsettle him.

And if Jesse does feel a spark of — _something_ , some odd hint of desire, a brief fit of insanity, it isn’t as if it matters. It isn’t as if Reyes had ever noticed him; Jesse is certain he had barely registered as a blip on Reyes’ radar, little more than a particularly irritating fly.

To go unnoticed: it isn’t an unfamiliar feeling for Jesse. So why should it bother him so much _now_?

He catches himself brooding and immediately begins to steer his mind down a different path. It doesn’t matter; he isn’t going back to the church. He’s content enough as he is now, chasing after the mercurial glimmers of lust and affection that Johnny lays out for him like table scraps for a dog. In time, maybe, maybe he’ll be able to coax out something more.

And yets, sometimes Jesse catches himself thinking about how kindly Reyes might treat him. How steady and experienced his hands might be, a sharp counterpoint to Johnny’s shaky, overeager nature.

Jesse takes a sharp drag of his cigarette and nearly chokes on it, carefully ignoring the inquisitive looks the other boys send his way.

It doesn’t matter, he tells himself firmly. You’re not going back.

On screen, the finale is playing. James Dean tilts his head to press a tender kiss to Julie Harris’ lips; Jesse watches, imagining the soft, gentle slide of warm lips over his, the firm grasp of strong hands at his waist. He watches, and aches.

. . .

  
Gabe lifts the brim of his sunhat to watch as a caravan of large trucks rolls past the church, heading south on the main road into town. Each one is hauling a covered livestock trailer that rattles and creaks over the uneven pavement. He turns his head to follow them as the procession meanders on by. “Someone got a big shipment of cows coming in?” he grunts to Jack, who raises his head and squints.

They’re out in the garden that sits on the southern side of the rectory, just behind the graveyard. Gabe is lounging in a wicker chair that rests in the generous shade cast by a large sycamore, and he’s still covered in a thin sheen of sweat. Even the pages of his book are wilting slightly in the stifling heat. Last Gabe checked, the mercury had risen to about 105 degrees.

Still, with a cup of ice rapidly melting in his hand, it’s almost pleasant. Jack certainly doesn’t seem to mind; he’s sweating like a sinner in church but he seems all the happier for it, merrily toiling away on his hands and knees in the sun as he uproots weeds and trims away dead leaves from his plants. Gabe gauges the pinkness of his skin every now and again; someone as fair as Jack will burn easily in hard sun like this.

“Oh, that’ll be the fair coming into town,” Jack says after a moment, grunting as he pushes to his feet and shuffles over to grab his own cup of ice from the small wobbly table that Gabe is sitting next to. At this point, it’s mostly lukewarm water.

That prompts Gabe to perk up in mild interest, marking his place in his book before setting it aside. He takes off his reading glasses as well, folding them up and resting them on top of the book. “I didn’t know we had a fair here.”

“Oh, yes, every summer in mid-July.” Jack takes a large gulp of his water, hissing out his satisfaction. “They set up shoreside to Lake Verde, about four miles due west of town. Folks come from all the neighboring towns to come see it. Then they’ll bring their livestock for the contests — I think last year the Harrison family brought in a sow that weighed in at over a thousand pounds. Then there’s contests of sport, swimming and canoeing and sprints and such.” Jack nods absently, raising a hand to scratch at the edge of the scar that slashes across his lips. It’s a bit red and swollen; he must’ve struck it against something recently. “And then of course, there’s the Ferris wheel and the carousel and all the merchant stalls.” He shrugs. “It’s not as big or impressive as anything you’ll get in the big city, I’m sure, but it’s a good time.”

“I only went to the fair a few times in LA.” The last time he’d gone, Gabe had been seventeen, and he had begrudgingly taken the first and last girlfriend that he would ever have. As a teenager, Gabe had taken himself very seriously, trying far too hard to project an image of himself as mature beyond his years to partake in frivolities like the county fair. As an adult, he’d been too depressed, haunted by doubt and ghosts from the war. “I’d love to see this one. Sounds like quite the event.”

“It is." Jack lifts his shirt to dab at his shiny forehead, revealing a soft belly that’s white as a sheet. “For a month, this place becomes a regular old boom town. The inn will be packed. Diner and theater will probably be overrun. Last year, they nearly cleaned out Ana’s stocks.” He sounds rather put off by this, but all Gabe can do is close his eyes and think: _finally_. A brief distraction from the ennui that’s been plaguing him constantly as of late.

“When’s it start?”

“My guess will be on Wednesday. It usually takes ‘em three or four days to set everything up.” As he speaks, Jack is stooping to check on the little bed of chamomile seeds that he’d planted for Gabe a little under two weeks ago. They’re coming along nicely, little fresh green sprouts poking up through the dark soil. “If you want to go soon, I say we ought to go that afternoon, stay the night at the campsite, and be back the next day in time for evening service. We’ll ask someone to drive us. A walk like that wouldn’t do your leg any favors.”

Even if he had been sound in body, Gabe wouldn’t have wanted to walk that distance in such damnable heat. The temperature drops into the low nineties by the time Wednesday rolls around, but the ride on the dusty dirty road that leads west out of town is still only made bearable by the breeze that rushes through the open windows. Gabe melts against the passenger’s side door of Lionel Walker’s truck and watches as the landscape grows steadily greener. The trees and grasses here are fed by the lake, the wide rolling meadows shimmering like ocean waves as the wind stirs through them. Lionel has to slow the truck to a crawl: an endless procession of people wind their way along the side of the road in a pilgrimage to the fair, most of them in family groups with screaming children and fretting wives and husbands saddled up with camping equipment like packhorses.

They hit the first traffic that Gabe has seen in months as they funnel into the fairgrounds. Lionel is apparently unbothered by it; he keeps up a steady flow of conversation as they slowly edge forward. Gabe tuned him out a good fifteen minutes ago; Jack is still grunting politely every so often, eyes glazed over. It takes them another fifteen minutes of baking alive to be directed into the field that serves as a parking lot by a man waving a pair of orange flags.

As Gabe uses his cane to slowly maneuver himself out of the truck, he silently curses Jack for insisting that they wear their clerical uniforms. To a fair of all places! He understands that Jack wants to uphold the image of Dry Creek as a proper Catholic town, but he’s sweating bullets in all black. Sweat pools beneath the high white-tab collar that clings snugly to his throat as well as beneath the bands of the suspenders that dig into his shoulders. At least, he supposes, he’s still better off than if he had worn a full cassock.

The pair of them thank Lionel for the ride and hurry away before he can delve into the nitty gritty of just how this season’s silage is coming along. Rows and rows of white canopies and wooden food carts and colorful game booths form the bulk of the fair. At the far end Gabe can see a Ferris wheel rising high above everything else, the benches swaying back and forth beneath the weight of their passengers. It’s all settled alongside the bank of a vast lake, in the middle of which sits a small island populated by a copse of willow trees. Gabe immediately wishes he’d brought along a pair of swimmers; Lake Verde’s waters look cool and inviting, the glassy surface stirred by a mild wind that provides some relief from the mid-afternoon heat.

Far off in the distance, along the opposite shore and flanked by trees, lay dense clumps of tents. “The campsite?” he asks Jack, who nods absently.

“That’s right. Ana should have her own tent set up somewhere out there; we’ll see if we can’t bum a little space.”

Gabe is immediately unsure of where to start, so he sticks to Jack’s side for a while, limping after him from booth to booth. After fifteen minutes, it dawns on him exactly why Jack insisted that they dress in their clerical uniforms rather than anything more sensible.

“Corn dogs for y’all, Fathers?” A florid man beams at them from beneath the red and white striped canopy of his cart as they pass by.

“Oh, we’d be delighted.” Jack makes as if to dig into his slacks for his wallet. “How much—”

“No-no-no, no charge! I couldn’t take from men of the church — why, you wouldn’t rob a holy man, would you?”

The vendor looks fit to burst with glee as Jack blesses him in the same motion he hands Gabe one of the corndogs. He’s clearly struggling to keep a straight face.

Not more than a few minutes later, they’re being beckoned over to an ice cream cart that’s been swarmed by dozens of people. “Free for the two of you, of course!” The woman thrusting a pair of dripping ice cream cones in their direction is in mild disarray, freckled skin shiny with sweat and curly hair fraying in every direction beneath her crooked straw hat, but she still manages a weary smile.

Jack looks slightly smug as he opens his mouth wide and takes a huge bite of his free corndog; Gabe wavers between indignance and grudging respect. “Well, I want to take a look at the pigs first,” Jack decides around his mouthful. “Though I doubt anything could beat the Harrison’s pig from last year—” Then he raises onto his tiptoes, craning his neck and squinting off towards the lake through a gap between the booths. “Oh, it looks like the swimmers are coming back from the island. Let’s go see if any of our boys won, shall we?”

Gabe spots them in distance a few moments later as he laps at his melting ice cream and follows Jack towards the rickety wooden stand that’s been cobbled together on the shore: a haphazard clump of heads and shoulders stirring up white foam as they surge towards the bank. A few of the boys are set far ahead of the others, rapidly approaching the reeds that line the lakeshore.

The announcer is shouting at the top of his lungs as the first one breaks through the makeshift finish line, a red ribbon tied between two wooden poles jutting out of the water. “And in first place for the swimming competition — let’s see, folks—” The boy staggers out of the water with his fists raised in triumph, chest heaving. He does a dramatic spin and flops down onto the sand, grinning ear to ear before he plays at being dead, draping a hand over his forehead and letting his tongue flop out of his mouth. “Johnny O'Farrell from Dry Creek comes in first place!” Myrna’s boy, then, and no surprise — the old tart often brags about her son being quite the athlete.

Coming second is a boy that Gabe doesn’t recognize from a neighboring town, barrel-chested and heavy-browed. The third boy— Gabe’s breath catches in his throat for a moment as he rises out of the water, slender and dusky-skinned, long wet hair almost black as it clings to his face and obscures his eyes. He stumbles towards Johnny, who laughs and lifts his hands as if in anticipation for what happens next: the boy shakes his head like a wet dog, spattering Johnny with lake water.

“—Jesse McCree, Junior in third place!”

Beside him, Jack makes a pleased noise. “Two of our boys placed. That’s much better than last year.” Gabe barely hears him.

Jesse is so _skinny_. His skin is stretched thin over his ribs, and when he turns Gabe can see almost every knob in his spine. The bones in his shoulders and wrists and ankles jut out at severe angles. For a boy of nineteen years, he looks half-starved, especially in comparison to Johnny’s sturdy, filled-out body.

Not to mention that Jesse is dressed in naught but his underwear, Gabe realizes, slightly scandalized. The thin, worn fabric is rendered nearly see-through by the water, clinging tightly to Jesse’s body and leaving very little to the imagination.

Gabe tries to tears his gaze away before he can ruminate on the ratio of Jesse’s skinny hips to the girth of what’s clinging to one of his thighs. The memory of the confessional springs to his mind uninvited; he remembers Jesse’s panting breaths, his flushed cheeks. Had he needed to use two hands, perhaps, as he reached between his legs and—

As if he can feel Gabe’s eyes on him, Jesse’s head swivels towards him. His grin immediately fades, and even from the stands Gabe can see the blush high on Jesse’s cheeks before he ducks his shaggy head. He slings an arm over Johnny’s shoulder and turns away, revealing a large hole in the left cheek of his briefs.

“Good heavens.” Jack is utterly deadpan. “Someone needs to get that boy an actual pair of trunks.”

“His father can’t?” Somehow Gabe manages to keep his voice steady despite the sudden lump in his throat.

Jack shrugs, letting out a soft sigh through his nose. “Think he’s got more interest in spending money on gambling, truth be told.”

Once again, Gabe can’t help but be stunned; why are these people so nonchalant to this man’s neglect of his own flesh and blood? “Right,” he says faintly. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Johnny and Jesse straggle away, Jesse draped heavily against Johnny’s side, murmuring something in his ear as a secretive smile tugs at his lips.

. . .

  
“I wanted to win,” Jesse whines as Johnny steers the both of them towards the popcorn vendor, their hungry stomachs trailing after the scent of salt and butter. The pair of them are barefoot and still dripping slightly all over their rumpled clothes, though they’ve already begun to dry in the heat.

“Well, that’s whatcha get for bein’ such a beanpole.” Jesse pouts; at least Johnny is enough of a gentleman to pay for their bag of popcorn with some of the ten dollars he’d gotten for winning. Jesse immediately hogs the bag to himself. He’s ravenous from swimming, stomach cramping as he shovels handfuls of greasy popcorn into his mouth; after this he’ll probably lie on the shore and take a well-deserved nap in the sun. Or. He perks up, nudging at Johnny’s side with his elbow.

“Hey. Didja wanna ditch for a little bit?” He murmurs low, peeping up at Johnny from beneath his eyelashes like Lauren Bacall. Pleasure blooms in his chest when Johnny actually blushes; his flirting has never been so effective as it has been in the last few weeks. He has to wonder what exactly has changed.

His eyes track the swipe of Johnny’s tongue over his lips. “Um, yeah. Yeah—” Mrs. O’Farrell’s shrill voice sounds off behind them like a steam whistle. Johnny groans, squeezing his eyes shut. “Aw, fuck.”

Reluctantly, the two of them turn around. Mrs. O’Farrell is standing next to the photo booth, violently burping Johnny’s baby brother as he wails in her ear. Mr. O’Farrell is hunkered beside her, Susie cradled against his shoulder and clearly on the verge of passing out. The photographer eyes them nervously from beneath the canopy of the booth.

Johnny huffs wearily. “Right. I promised Ma I’d help take care of the kids today.” He thumps Jesse on the back, then leans in to whisper in his ear, “Tomorrow, alright? I’ll pick up some rubbers from Ana’s.” Jesse shivers, doing his best not to flush with Johnny’s mother staring him down. She’s never cared for Jesse; he’s fairly sure she would arrange to have him run out of town if she ever found out what he did to Johnny on a regular basis.

That leaves Jesse to wander the fair by himself, fifty cents he’d found on the ground rattling around in his pocket. First he stops by the main information booth to sign up for the pie-eating contest on Saturday — if he can’t win anything, he can at least get a free meal out of it.

The animals are probably his favorite part of the fair. All of the pigs this year are absolutely massive; Jesse watches a lumbering sow with a black spot on her ear amble around and snuffle at the mud in her pen for a good ten minutes before he tells the attendant to put his guess down at thirteen hundred pounds. He gets a raised eyebrow and an indulgent smile for his troubles.

He doesn’t take much interest in the cows until he spots a small calf hugging closely to its mother’s side, its coat a solid black save for its four white socks. He immediately takes a liking to it and spends a while clucking at it and holding out his hand as if he’s got food to share. It stares back at him warily with big watery brown eyes. Jesse nearly melts as it finally wobbles over to him on spindly legs and starts licking at the palm of his hand, still salty from the popcorn. He leans against the fence and pets it until the owner finally spots him and shoos him away.

The game booths draw him in next. He has enough money for a only a couple; he excels at the milk bottle toss and wins himself a giant teddy bear, which he promptly passes off to a little girl walking past. She squeals and immediately runs off without so much as a thank you, tottering under its weight. Ring the Bell he fails miserably at, the puck barely making it halfway up the pole. He walks away down twenty cents and a small amount of pride; beanpole indeed. At least his aim is still aces.

From a distance, he gazes longing at the Ferris wheel before deciding it wouldn’t be worth it to be the only fella flying high in the sky without someone sitting beside him. He can almost certainly see a couple necking as their bench nears the peak.

As the sun starts to droop from the sky, Jesse’s casually strolling along behind the booths, casting furtive glances into the garbage bins. He comes away triumphant with a half-eaten salted pretzel as well as a hot dog sausage that someone must’ve dropped in the dirt. It’s a little gritty going down, but Jesse has never been a picky eater.

(Couldn’t afford to be.)

He circles around the edge of booth he’s behind and then immediately ducks back, heart jumping in his throat. It takes a few moments to steel himself enough to peer around the corner, clutching at a fistful of the blue and yellow striped canopy that drapes over the booth. Reyes is standing there at the front of the line, head bowed as he opens his wallet. Jesse’s about to flit away again — he’s avoiding Reyes for a reason — when the vendor speaks.

“Oh, don’t bother with that.” Reyes glances up, clearly pleased. Jesse scowls. Of _course_ priests would be given free food. Then: “I’m not going to serve you.”

Reyes’ demeanor changes immediately. His shoulders square up, mouth setting into a thin line. Behind him, the couple standing in line glance away, discomfited. “And why’s that, now?” Reyes says evenly — too evenly. Like he’s measuring his syllables.

“Whites only.”

The air stills in Jesse’s lungs. A beat. Then, calmly: “You don’t have a sign up.”

Jesse hears the vendor spit. “Don’t need a sign. I told you, I ain’t gonna serve you. Now get on outta here.”

Sudden, volatile anger licks at Jesse’s belly, burning him white-hot like a brand. Without a second’s thought he’s stalking forward, shouldering past a startled Reyes and slamming his hands down on the counter. The man standing behind it — balding, florid-faced, jowly — visibly startles, shying back and nearly knocking into the display of candy apples behind him.

“McCree!” Reyes barks, but Jesse barely hears him, blood rushing in his ears in a dull roar.

“Who the fuck you think you are to speak to him like that?” he snarls, the counter the only thing preventing him from lunging forward and grabbing a fistful of the man’s collar. “You think you can talk to a priest like that just ‘cause he’s got different skin than you?”

Recovering quickly, the man sneers right back at him. “McCree, huh? Buzz off, kid. I’m not gonna be lectured by a mutt like you.”

Jesse’s eyes go wide.

He launches himself across the counter with a ragged yell, only for Reyes to snag him by the arm and yank him right back. “That’s enough.” There’s enough commanding bite to Reyes’ voice that Jesse goes limp for a moment out of instinct, letting Reyes tug him away from the stand and the gaping crowd of bystanders.

“Reyes, you can’t just—”

“I said, that’s enough!” Jesse shrinks in on himself; he’s never heard Reyes sound so angry. He allows himself to be led away towards the outskirts of the fair. Only when they’re alone beneath the shade of a large beech does he finally jerk his arm out of Reyes’ bruising grasp, rubbing at his forearm.

“What the fuck?” he snaps, rounding on Reyes. “You’re just gonna let him get away with that? Gonna let him treat you like dirt? You’re a vet, ain’tcha?”

He falters when he sees the expression on Reye’s face. He looks so _tired_. The lines beneath his eyes are more pronounced than ever as he sighs and drags a hand down his stubbly chin, fretting with his beard.

“I know when to pick my battles,” Reyes murmurs,voice far gentler than it had been moments before. “Getting beat over a caramel apple is not one of them.” He shrugs. “This isn’t new to me, McCree. Calm yourself.”

Jesse deflates all at once, the brim of his hat shielding his eyes from view as he tips his head forward. “Yeah. OK.” He can’t help the way his voice shakes. Mutt. Mongrel. He supposes that’s not so new to him, either.

The first sniffle takes him by surprise. His cheeks flush with shame as he hiccups and lets out a tiny sob before he can bite it back, using the back of his hand to wipe hurriedly at his eyes.

Embarrassment and anger roil in his belly like nausea. Not only had he caused a scene, but he’s suddenly, viscerally aware that the last time he’d been this close to Reyes, he’d had his hands around his dick.

He jumps as warm fingers grasp his chin and gently tip it upward. “Easy crier?” Jesse’s ears burn, then he’s squirming as Reyes starts to dab at his face with the edge of one sleeve. “Don’t be upset, alright? Folks like that aren’t worth shedding tears over.”

Jesse thinks he ought to shove Reyes away for treating him like a kid. Instead, he lets himself be fussed over for a few moments, Reyes’ touch soothing away the strange ache in his chest. Finally, he squints and glances up as Reyes takes a step back, putting his hands on Jesse’s shoulders and just looking at him for a moment.

“Are you hungry?” he says after a long pause, just as Jesse is starting to fidget. “Ana and Jack and I are sharing a campsite. I think Ana said she would have dinner ready in half an hour or so.” He glances down to check his watch, nods to himself.

The offer startles Jesse. In a way, he thinks it’s playing dirty — he can’t say no to the promise of a meal.

A _hot_ meal, he finds out. Some sort of hearty lentil stew brewed in a large pot over the open fire, flavorful and so laden with spices that it makes his nose run. He greedily slurps down his first bowl in the space of two minutes, then takes his second, his third a little slower before he’s finally satisfied.

He firmly ignores the the constant fluttering of nerves in his gut from having Reyes seated so close to him. He also chooses to ignore the odd glances that Morrison sends his way every so often, as if he can’t quite believe that Jesse McCree of all people is sitting at his campfire. Jesse’s not exactly sure what he’s doing here himself, but he does know that the events of the day have left him with a bone-deep weariness that has him yawning widely, head listing to one side.

“Ana Amari, is that you?” Jesse nearly jumps out of his skin as a loud voice suddenly booms out behind him. He twists his head around to see an absolute giant of a man approaching their camp, one pan-sized hand raised in greeting. He’s built like a tree trunk, thick and powerful, if a bit portly in the middle, and he grins down at them from beneath a bushy grey beard and prominent eyebrows.

“Ah, there you are!” Ana rises and goes him, smiling as widely as Jesse has ever seen her. He stoops down to gather her up in a loose hug with arms that are easily half the size of her body. Jesse stares openly. “I thought you’d gotten lost.”

“Perhaps a little.” This man’s laughs are as big as the rest of him, rumbly and delighted. “I’m not always so good with directions, you see!” He pats Ana’s back as he releases her, then turns to the rest of them with his hands on his hips. “Ah, but where are my manners? Reinhardt Wilhelm, at your service. Ana is a dear, ah, friend of mine. And you two must be the priests from the church, yes?”

Morrison and Reyes stand to introduce themselves, and Jesse hastily follows suit after a moment, his fourth bowl of stew clutched half-eaten against his chest. He nearly drops it when Reinhardt turns his attention on him: “And who is this young man?”

“Uh— McCree. Jesse McCree.” Reinhardt’s hand utterly engulfs his as they shake; Jesse has a feeling that if he were so inclined, Reinhardt could easily crush his bones to dust. It’s awe-inspiring. “I’m, uh—”

“Jesse’s one of my students,” Reyes interjects smoothly. Jesse shoots him a questioning look that is promptly ignored; out of the corner of his eye, he catches Morrison doing the same thing.

“Ah, you must be a smart young man, then. Ana has told me many great things about Mr. Reyes in her letters.” Jesse opens and closes his mouth for a moment, at a loss for words; in the end he forces an awkward smile. For one insane moment, he wants more than anything to be the person that Reinhardt might think he is. Someone who’s learned and disciplined and morally upright. Someone from a good family. The sort of person who would study under a priest.

Instead, he returns to his seat besides the fire and sips quietly at his stew, pretending to be oblivious to Reyes’ gaze boring into the side of his skull.

Fortunately, the conversation steers in other more comfortable, more entertaining directions. Reinhardt, for instance, has brought along a case of his home-brewed lager that he insists everyone try. “I won’t tell!” he beams at Jesse, waggling a finger in his direction. “You are old enough to drink in my home country, ha!” Jesse grins back at him with more enthusiasm after the first sip is strong enough to bite at his throat and sink hot in his belly; he hasn’t the heart to tell Reinhardt that he’s been getting drunk since he was thirteen.

He’s content to let the old-timers discuss the state of the world while he half-listens and steadily imbibes. Disneyland had just opened its gates for the first time in Anaheim a couple days ago, and maybe Gabe would have to take his family the next time he visited Los Angeles; Salk’s polio vaccine has so far proven to be a success, unfortunately far too late for Jack’s departed sister; Reinhardt, a veteran like Reyes and Morrison, is nervously watching the news every morning as tensions flare in Vietnam.

It’s almost cozy, curled up on the ground beside the crackling fire with a fully belly and a beer in his hand as the sky steadily darkens. If only Jesse weren’t certain that most everyone here resented his existence, he might almost feel at home.

He sits up and nearly topples over. This beer is a lot stronger than whatever Pa likes to drink; the world swims around him in a buzzing haze. Jesse’s lost track of time; all he knows is that it’s completely dark and that Reinhardt is definitely drunk, judging by the way he roars with laughter as he slurs his way through an old war story. The wooden case of lager is empty.

Ana has her head pillowed against Reinhardt’s arm, dozing; Morrison is listening intently, elbows resting on his knees and head listing from side to side; Reyes has his eyes closed and his head tipped back towards the starry night sky, maybe soaking in the heat from the fire. Jesse gets lost for a moment, just staring at the contrast of the white-tab collar against the graceful arch of Reyes’ throat, the strong bones of his jaw, the dark fan of his eyelashes against his cheek, the gentle part of his full lips.

Jesse shifts in place, jeans tightening; liquid courage inspires him to get to his feet, stumble around the fire, and tap Reyes on the shoulder. “Can I talk to you for a moment?” he mumbles. Reyes slits one eye open and glares up at him, then sighs heavily before getting to his feet. He falters for a moment, though whether it’s from his leg or the drink Jesse can’t be sure.

“We’ll be right back,” Reyes calls over his shoulder, though no one makes any indication of having heard him.

They stray about fifteen feet from the fire, their shadows elongated and flickering in the night. “So, uh.” Jesse falters, unsure of where to start. He notices Reyes’ gaze trailing downward and he follows it, glancing down at his boots. “What?”

Reyes doesn’t answer for a moment. When he does, it’s faint. “Did you think about it?”

Jesse’s mouth goes dry. “I— huh?” He licks his lips. “Think about. Think about what?” He considers crossing his legs.

Finally, Reyes meets his eyes. “Did you think about your actions. As I told you to.”

“Oh.” Jesse blinks slowly for a moment. “Uh, no.” Reyes breathes out heavily through his nose, and Jesse hastily adds, “I, uh, I just wanted to say. I’m sorry, ok? It was a dumbbell move, and I wanna put it behind us.” He hesitates, ducking his head and fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, which at some point had come untucked out of his jeans. “Can we start over?”

When he looks up again, Reyes has his arms crossed and his lips pursed. He stares at Jesse with hooded eyes until Jesse starts to squirm. Then, with a loud puff of air, Reyes sighs, tips his head back to the heavens in askance. He slowly, carefully extends a hand. “Alright. We’ll start over.”

Jesse meets him halfway. Reyes’ hand is big and warm, the palm rough. Jesse has a hard time letting go, even when Reyes tries to tug away. “Jesse McCree,” he mumbles, finally forcing his fingers to unclench. His arm hovers in the air for a few moments before he lets it fall limply by his side. “Nice t’meet ya.”

“Gabriel Reyes.” Reyes’ gaze drops again. “Jesse?”

“Yeah?”

“Your boot is untied.”

“Oh.” Jesse drops down to one knee, drunkenly fumbling with the laces. His jeans cut uncomfortably into his swollen flesh. “I didn’t know your first name before. Gabriel.”

“That’s because you didn’t ask.” He huffs. “Call me Gabe. Only my father calls me Gabriel.”

“Oh yeah? What’s your ma call you?” It takes Jesse a couple attempts to stand upright. When he does, Gabe is watching him, lips quirked.

“Gabi.” Jesse flinches as Gabe suddenly reaches out towards him, tensing up expectantly, but Gabe merely straightens his hat where it’d been knocked to one side of his head. “You play chess, Jesse?”

Bewildered by the sudden change in subject, Jesse nods before he can think about it. “Sort of.” He winces. “I mean, no. Why?”

Gabe rolls his eyes at him. “Because I need more people to play chess with. If I have to beat Morrison’s sorry ass every other day I’ll go insane.” Seeing Jesse’s hesitation, he tacks on: “I’ll make dinner.”

Jesse’s heart sinks. That’s not fair; there’s no way he’s going to say no to that.

“Well. OK,” he allows. “But I don’t know the rules. I don’t think I’ll be much of a challenge.”

“That’s fine. I’m a good teacher.” A light shiver runs down Jesse’s spine despite how warm the night is. Another follows in quick succession as a big hand comes to rest at the small of his back, pushing lightly, steering him back towards the fire. “Now come on, let’s go rejoin the others before Reinhardt puts together a search party.”

Jesse nods mutely. He thinks that if Gabe kept his hand there, right in the dip of his spine, warm and comforting, Jesse would go anywhere Gabe wanted.

. . .

  
Jesse takes to chess surprisingly well.

On the first night, Jesse scarfs down three servings of rosemary chicken and potatoes, then watches intently as Gabe sets the board on the coffee table in the rectory common room and shows him how all the pieces move. Gabe can tell he’s on edge, dark eyes flitting nervously around the room as if scanning for all possible routes of escape. By the fifth night, Jesse no longer looks like he’s being held hostage, sinking comfortably into the couch as he masters the basics; a little over three weeks later, he’s in his element, gleefully abusing _en passant_ and castling whenever he can, even when it’s not particularly tactically advantageous.

Jack raises a single accusing eyebrow at Gabe the first time he comes into the common room and finds Jesse McCree, Jr. sitting in it; Gabe just stares him down, unblinking, and continues to show an oblivious Jesse all the patterns the knights can move in tandem. Jack seems to warm to the idea fairly quickly, though, occasionally squinting down at the board over Jesse’s shoulder and pointing out gaps in his defenses; little bits of advice that Jesse only grudgingly accepts. Other times, Jack will just sit in the recliner in the corner of the room and watch the evening news while Gabe and Jesse play, creating a warm atmosphere of quiet mumbling and static.

It’ll be some time before Jesse can provide much of a challenge to Gabe — Gabe’s been playing chess for decades, after all — but it’s already apparent that he’s got an eye for tactics and planning several steps ahead, even if he’s not experienced enough to predict what Gabe will do to counter him.

It’s just as Gabe suspected: Jesse’s a smart kid, witty and quick-thinking (when he _wants_ to be), but he’s got nothing to do with that brain of his.

They get to chatting as they play. Whatever comes to mind — oftentimes whatever’s being discussed on the news. Like many kids Jesse’s age, he’s got a very idealized — and a very _basic_ — view of politics and the global stage at large. He’s decidedly patriotic, holding United States in very high regard as the savior of the free world. “You’d know, you’re one of the fellas who sent Adolf cryin’ to his ma,” he tells Gabe earnestly one evening, clearly hoping for a detailed description of just what it was like to punch Hitler in the face. Gabe decides that chess lessons are not the best place to try and correct him, instead doing his best to ignore the disappointed look on Jesse’s face as he quickly steers the conversation to another topic.

Asking Jesse about himself yields better results. (Gabe soon gets the feeling that Jesse doesn’t get the opportunity to talk about his own life very often.) He learns that Jesse has never been farther from this town than Santa Fe; to him, Los Angeles might as well have been on the moon. Jesse idolizes James Dean more than anyone else in the world and is squeezing pennies to try and save up for an authentic leather jacket like he’s seen Dean wearing in some of his press photos. His favorite baseball team is the Boston Braves — he stubbornly refuses to accept that they relocated to Milwaukee three years ago. At one point, he quietly admits, Jesse wanted nothing more than to become a pilot.

“Well?” Gabe pushes. “What’s stopping you? A pilot — now _there’s_ a respectable career.”

He realizes he may have stuffed his foot in his mouth when Jesse suddenly falls silent, shoulders drawing up as he glares down at the chessboard.

“You can’t be a pilot if you’re colorblind,” is all he will say. Wisely, Gabe drops the subject.

In return, Gabe answers almost any question that Jesse shoots his way. No, he’s never been married, and yes, he really does have seven siblings, six of which are little sisters. His kid brother had been born just as Gabe was heading off to college.

“I think he might be around your age, now,” he remarks absently as he strokes his chin and studies the board. “Maybe a little older.” Jesse’s silence stretches on long enough for Gabe to glance up in askance and catch the blush spreading high across Jesse’s cheekbones.

He makes the mistake of asking after Jesse’s own family one evening. Tender subject, he quietly notes, after Jesse falls hushed and sulky for the rest of the night.

Gabe once spends an entire afternoon describing Los Angeles in vivid detail while Jesse listens with rapt attention, interrupting occasionally to try and pry out every last sordid triviality that Gabe might be trying to hide from him. They don’t even touch the chessboard that day. Jesse's far too enraptured in Gabe's retelling of a fist fight he'd gotten into after accidentally knocking over some guy's child on Santa Monica beach. On another occasion, he tells Jesse in no uncertain tones that the Brooklyn Dodgers are far superior to the Braves in every single way, just to see Jesse pout and huff.

Sometimes, when he’s feeling up to the task, Gabe will tell Jesse one or two of his more light-hearted war stories. Pleasure brims in his chest the first time he manages to reduce Jesse into a fit of tearful laughter, all over his dramatic recounting of a fellow soldier who’d ducked into an abandoned German foxhole to relieve himself and nearly had his pecker bitten off by a particularly grumpy badger. He grins back until his cheeks hurt.

This evening, Jesse is unusually quiet, almost melancholy as he mechanically sets his side of the board. Fortunately it doesn’t take much prodding to find out what’s wrong. “My friends are leaving for college tomorrow,” he mumbles, idly tilting one of his pawns back and forth. “Well, everyone except for Johnny.”

Gabe isn’t sure what to say at first, eventually settles for a sympathetic grimace. “I know how much time you spend with them.” Not that he’d ever gotten the impression that they had been particularly good friends to Jesse to begin with. A sudden thought strikes him, so glaringly obvious that Gabe almost smacks his own forehead. “Jesse. Tell me this: what exactly do you do in your spare time, besides play chess with me a few nights a week and otherwise run around causing mild property damage with your friends?”

Jesse goes on the defensive almost immediately. “Lots of stuff!” he blurts, crossing his arms. “I go shootin’ — well, I guess that’s at Dickie’s house, so scratch that. But uh, sometimes I play baseball with the lil’ kids at the school. And! And I go swimming. Sometimes.” He rubs at the back of his neck, adds with a mumble, “an’ I guess it’s not so much for swimmin’ as for. Uh.” He trails off awkwardly, blushing down at the chessboard, but Gabe can certainly guess.

They still haven’t discussed the evening in the confessional. Or the implications of it. Gabe thinks that Jesse is content to pretend that it had never happened.

That doesn’t make his wandering eyes any less obvious.

Jesse likes to stare when he thinks Gabe won’t notice. Eyes half-lidded, cheeks slightly pink, lips red from his worrying teeth as he stares and stares and stares, gaze skittering all over Gabe’s body like a field mouse. Rather than snap at him and tell him off like any sensible man ought to, Gabe finds himself preening under the attention, making subtle little adjustments to accentuate the firm set of his jaw, the elegant poise of his spine.

Likewise, he catches himself making the very same mistake as Jesse, often without realizing it. He spends too long drinking in the pleasured flush of Jesse’s cheeks when he manages to capture one of Gabe’s pieces, the dark curl of his wild hair against the underside of his sharp jaw, the defined dip of his collarbone as it disappears into the neck of his undershirt. There’s no denying that Jesse is a beautiful boy. Starved-looking, sure, perhaps in need of a good wash. But beautiful.

And off limits, Gabe reminds himself firmly. He won’t allow his fantasies of holding Jesse, of touching him, of pressing his lips to the smooth brown column of his throat, to emerge anywhere but the privacy of his own bedroom. It would be wildly immoral of him to do anything otherwise — taking advantage of a boy who’s half his age and clearly starved for affection. Best to let Jesse’s obvious crush wane with time.

Gabe can be a mentor to Jesse; maybe even a friend. He won’t allow himself anything more.

. . .

A soft sigh, and Gabe is awake.

It’s still dark outside, the sky black and shimmering with starlight. He squints up at the dim ceiling for a moment, almost accusingly, trying to figure out what woke him.

Something taps against the garden-side window pane. Gabe jumps, breath freezing in his chest. He hesitates for a moment before pushing himself upright and shoving the blankets away. His leg almost crumples beneath him as he slips out of bed, white-hot pain shooting up his spine the second he puts weight on his knee; the medicine must have worn off during the night. He grits his teeth, a fine sweat breaking out on his brow as he limps over to the window. At first the night yields nothing. Then he cranes his neck and spots the dark lump huddled against the wall just beneath the window.

Dread spikes sudden and choking in his chest. There’s a minute tremble to his fingers as he undoes the latch and throws the windows open. “Jesse?” he hisses, low and urgent. “What in the hell—”

“Can I come in?” Jesse’s throat sounds shredded, voice hoarse and shaking. Gabe doesn’t even hesitate before reaching out a hand, doing his best to ignore the pain radiating up his leg.

Jesse’s hand slips from his the moment he hauls himself over the window sill, followed by a thud as he tumbles to the floor and lands in a crumpled heap, curling in on himself. Gabe swears loudly, leaning over to yank the chain on the desk lamp before rushing back to Jesse’s side. “What in the hell happened to you?” Jesse doesn’t answer, head bowed. His left arm is cradled close to his belly.

“Jesse. Jesse, look at me.” Gabe is doing his best to stay steady, kneeling down at Jesse’s side even as his knee throbs in protest. When Jesse doesn’t move, Gabe grasps his face in his hands and gently tilts his head up.

Cold fury spreads through his veins like ice: Jesse’s face is a battered mess. His right eye is an angry red, rapidly starting to swell shut; just beneath it the skin over his cheekbone is split. His bottom lip is torn open as if by teeth, blood oozing sluggishly down his chin. He whines quietly and tries to jerk away when Gabe tips his head up to peer into his eyes. Pupils uneven. Probing fingers set upon a tender spot at the back of Jesse’s head that makes Jesse hiss. Concussion. As for Jesse’s arm, the wrist is swollen, hot to the touch. Hard to tell if it’s fractured or sprained.

“Where else are you hurt.” Gabe is surprised to find his voice is calm — much calmer than he is feeling.

Once again, Jesse doesn’t answer. Gabe realizes he’s trembling all over, staring up at the ceiling past Gabe’s head.

“Jesse?”

Big fat tears well up in Jesse’s eyes. All at once he’s lurching forward, burying his face into the crook of Gabe’s shoulder as the first violent sob wracks through his skinny frame. It quickly dissolves from there. Gabe’s arms settle around him as he feels the wet patch steadily spread across his shoulder. He feels as if he’s trying to keep Jesse’s fragile body from falling to pieces. As he cries, Jesse’s fingers dig into the back of Gabe’s undershirt, pinching at his skin.

“He said it was my fault,” he chokes out, voice muffled against Gabe’s shoulder. A particularly powerful shudder rolls through his body. “It was my fault she left, my fault, my fault—”

Anger is not what Jesse needs right now, even as it threatens to burst from Gabe’s throat in a low growl. Instead, he takes a deep, steadying breath, releasing it slowly as his arms tighten around Jesse’s shoulders.

“It’s alright, it’s alright. I got you, you’re fine.” Gabe murmurs nonsense into Jesse’s hair as he slowly starts to rock him back and forth, tipping their bodies together. One of his hands ends up cradling Jesse’s head, fingers slowly stroking through his sweaty tangled hair.

He’s unsure of how long they stay there, Gabe cradling Jesse like a child until the shudders die from Jesse’s body.

“Jesse. Are you still with me?” Jesse doesn’t answer, and Gabe pulls back a little to get a look at his face. He’s relieved to see Jesse’s uninjured eye is still open, if red and puffy from crying. Gabe’s undershirt is stained with snot and tears and blood, but he pays it no mind. “OK. I need you to stay awake for a little while, OK? You have a concussion.”

It takes Jesse too long to respond, staring dull-eyed back at Gabe before tipping his chin forward slightly. Anger threatens to well up in Gabe’s throat all over again; he quickly swallows it back down.

“Can you wait here for me? I’m going to go get something for your head.” Gabe has to take Jesse’s unintelligible mumble as an affirmation. He props Jesse up against the side of his bed, petting his hair one last time before pushing to his feet and limping out into the hallway. His knee is killing him, threatening to seize up as it sends hot flashes of pain up and down his body. He ignores it as best he can as he shuffles into the kitchen to grab a cold compress from the freezer, swaddling it in dishtowel.

His heart jumps into his throat as he doubles back and shoulders open the door to his room. Jesse has crawled into his bed and is curled up on his side around one of Gabe’s pillows, face buried in it. “Jesse.” Gabe urgently shakes Jesse’s shoulder. “Jesse, wake up. I told you you needed to stay awake.”

Jesse cracks his good eye open, and Gabe lets out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Come here. Come on, this will make you feel better.” He stoops over the bed and presses the compress to the back of Jesse’s skull. Jesse snuffles, shivering, lets out a shaky breath before going limp.

“Gabe,” he mumbles.

“Yeah?”

“Gabe.”

“Hey, stay with me. Look alive, kid.” Gabe pats Jesse’s cheek as his eyes begin to drift closed again.

They stay like that for over an hour, Gabe continually prodding Jesse awake until the clock on his desk reads three o’clock. The compress has nearly melted by the time Gabe finally lifts it away, cupping the back of Jesse’s head. The swelling has gone down a little, he thinks.

“OK. Come on, Jesse, let’s get you to sleep.” He begins to carefully unlace Jesse’s boots, doing his best not to wrinkle his nose at the smell as he slips them off his feet. In turn, Jesse yanks and tugs unsuccessfully at his jeans until Gabe helps him with his belt, sliding it through the loops with a quiet whisper of leather. He carefully stifles the part of his brain that yearns to do this under any other circumstance. He strips Jesse until he’s left in a ratty undershirt and a pair of briefs, then rolls him beneath the covers. Jesse has gone mostly limp; Gabe’s sure he’s about to drift off.

At least until Gabe's backing away from the bed to go sleep on the couch in the common room. Jesse’s hand shoots out to seize his wrist in a weak grasp. “Don’t go.” He suddenly sounds terrified, voice trembling as he croaks: “God, please, don’t go—”

“I won’t, I won’t,” Gabe immediately gives in without a fight. “I’ll stay here. I promise.”

Jesse is quelled by that, peering at him over the pillow as Gabe hoists his left leg up with his hands and eases himself onto the other side of the bed, settling down on top of the sheets. He immediately burrows as close to Gabe as he can get. Gabe’s certain that if the blankets weren’t separating them, Jesse would be plastered against Gabe’s side.

“You promise you’ll stay?” Jesse’s voice quivers. His breath hitches as Gabe reaches out to brush a greasy lock of hair out of his face, tucking it behind his ear.

“Yeah. Yeah, I promise. I’ll be here when you wake up.” That makes Jesse sigh and go lax, snuggling deeper into the blankets. He’s asleep in minutes, breathing going deep and even. Gabe lies on his back, hands clasped over his stomach. He stares blankly up at the ceiling. Sleep doesn’t come to him until the sky has started to lighten outside; and even then, it’s short and fitful.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please go check out this lovely fan art of [the drive-in scene](http://ikkanrana.tumblr.com/post/163419923352/cmoooon-what-do-we-keep-you-around-for) made by my boy seb!!


	5. September 30th, 1955

Gabe wakes to an empty bed.

For a moment, he just stares up at the cross affixed to the wall above his head. Then he pushes himself upright, only to hiss and curl as his leg spasms, locking up. Clutching at his thigh just above his knee, he has a moment to wonder: had last night merely been some sort of fever-dream, perhaps induced by one too many painkillers?

He catches movement out of the corner of his eye and relaxes. Jesse is standing at his desk, back half-turned to Gabe and shoulders hunched forward. He’s got something in his hand — Gabe recognizes the letter to his mother that he had drafted the night before. Jesse regards it almost reverently, lightly brushing his fingers over Gabe’s delicate cursive.

“Read anything juicy?” Gabe grunts. Jesse startles, dropping the letter as if he’s been burned. He only just manages to catch it as it flutters to the floor.

“I— “ He blushes, clasping his hands in front of himself and backing away from the desk. “I couldn’t read it, it’s—”

“I know, kid.” Spots bloom across Gabe’s vision as he squeezes his eyes shut and uses his thumb and forefinger to wipe the sleep away. “It’s OK.”

He tips his head back, and for a moment he just watches Jesse — nervous, twitchy, _grimy_. His face looks much worse than it had the night before: right eye completely swollen shut and purpling, split lip almost black with dried blood, the deep cut on his cheek red and crusting around the edges. His left wrist is still pink and puffy, but it looks sound — Gabe hazards a guess that it’s only sprained.

“It’s in Spanish,” Jesse blurts, fidgeting under Gabe’s scrutiny. “You, uh. You know how to speak Spanish?”

“Been speaking it since I was a baby. My mother and father are from Mexico — barely speak any English at all.”

“Oh.” Jesse flounders. Then mumbles. “My mama was a, um, Mexican too.”

A vivid memory rises to the forefront of Gabe’s mouth: the caramel apple vendor at the county fair, sneering with spittle-flecked lips. Mutt, he had called Jesse.

Gabe’s hands curl into fists where they’re resting in his lap.

Jesse seems oblivious. “She used to talk to me in Spanish a lot, before she.” He pauses, swallowing. Gabe’s eyes track the bob of his Adam’s apple. “I only remember a lil’ bit. Pa don’t speak it anymore, an’ I always wished that I knew more.”

It’s not wheedling, exactly, but the hopeful tone in Jesse’s voice, the eager look in his eye, speak volumes. Gabe hasn’t got the slightest idea how to begin teaching someone an entire new language, but he can’t bring himself to to say no to such a puppy-dog face.

“Sure.” He keeps his voice gentle. “Maybe sometime during our chess games, I can teach you one or two things.”

Jesse smiles at him, crooked and hesitant, and suddenly Gabe can’t stand to be the object of so much expectation. He looks away as he eases himself out of bed, pain flaring up into his hip as he hobbles over to where the Bayer tin is resting on the dresser. It’s almost empty, he realizes as he shakes a couple of chalky tablets into his palm, a week before it ought to be. He wavers before reluctantly adding a third, then grits them down dry.

How very old he must look.

Gabe drags a hand down his face. He feels it, too.

He sighs.

“Jesse.” Even before he turns around, Gabe can sense Jesse’s flinch. “Last night— ”

The change in Jesse’s demeanor is almost frightening in its suddenness. His shoulders draw up, jaw stiffening, eye narrowing — his face hardens into something cold and defensive. “I don’t wanna talk about it, alright?” he bites out, so much venom in his voice that Gabe feels his own hackles rising. “Just leave it.”

Gabe snaps back before he can stop himself. “I’m not going to— I’m not going to just leave it. You scared the hell out of me, Jesse! I thought you were seriously hurt!” He limps forward and reaches out to lay a hand on Jesse’s shoulder, only to have Jesse shy away from his grasp.

“Don’t touch me,” he growls, backing away like a wounded, cornered animal.

Like a little coyote baring his teeth, snapping at the hand trying to feed him.

Gabe’s temper flares. They were supposed to be past this point.

“What was it you said to me before, huh? At the fair?” His voice goes high and mocking. “You just gonna let him get away with that, treat you like dirt?”

It’s terribly unfair. Gabe immediately knows he’s gone too far — he can see it in the wideness of Jesse’s eye, the stiffness of his chest, the way his fingers twitch and curl into loose fists at his sides. He’s grown practiced at reading Jesse’s erratic temper; he’s only moments away from launching himself at Gabe with his fists flying.

“Just— OK.” He takes a step back and raises his hands in surrender. Jesse quivers suspiciously, clearly confused, lips still poised to curl back into a snarl. “We’ll talk about it later, alright?” He receives a blank stare in return. “Please, Jesse.”

Perhaps it’s the gentleness in Gabe’s voice; perhaps it’s Jesse’s own weariness catching up with him. He deflates, quivering. “OK,” he mumbles.

For a beat they just regard one another in wary silence.

Cautiously: “Are you hungry?” Then Gabe takes another step back and sweeps his eyes up and down Jesse’s body; he’s covered in a thin layer of grime and blood from head to toe. “Actually — let’s get you cleaned up first.”

Jesse hesitates for a moment before nodding jerkily. His hands are still clenched at his sides, but this time he doesn’t duck away or resist as Gabe lays a hand on his shoulder and nudges him out the door, down the hallway towards the washroom.

The grey morning light filtering through the window casts the washroom into an almost ethereal haze. Gabe shuts the door quietly behind them; judging by the stuttering snores coming from the next room over, Jack is still fast asleep.

Jesse takes a seat on the bath stool and slumps there, watching with one shuttered eye as Gabe stoops down to run the bath. He rises to crack open the window as steam begins to fill the air, and when he turns around Jesse is standing beside the tub, hand hovering above the surface of the water. “It’s so warm,” he murmurs, voice hushed with awe — Gabe has to wonder just how long it’s been since Jesse’s had a bath.

Jesse must catch Gabe watching him out of the corner of his eye, because he snatches his hand back almost guiltily. Gabe clears his throat, shuffling towards the door. “I’ll give you some privacy,” he says, doing his best to ignore the crestfallen expression on Jesse’s face. “Shout if you need anything.”

Jesse says nothing as Gabe backs out into the hallway and closes the door.

He’s left with a pit of unease in his stomach, eating at his insides like nausea as he pads through the common room and into the kitchen. It’s a feeling he’s all too familiar with; the knowledge that something is wrong, and there is nothing that he can do about it.

He instead distracts himself with the task of making breakfast. In his ongoing effort to put some meat on Jesse’s bones, he cracks half a carton of eggs into a bowl and whisks in creamy milk and salt and pepper. As an afterthought adds a couple more for when Jack eventually finds his way out of bed. First he puts on a panful of thick slabs of bacon — he’ll scramble the eggs in the juices.

His efforts yield a towering platter of eggs and bacon that he promptly pops in the oven to keep warm. Then he settles against the counter to wait, leaning heavily on his good leg; the pain-killers haven’t quite kicked in yet.

The ticking of the grandfather clock against the wall slows to a dreadful pace. He fidgets restlessly: tapping his fingers on the counter, popping his lips, running a hand over his close-cropped hair. It’s starting to curl — he’ll want to go to the barber’s soon.

He glances towards the hallway. Not a peep from Jesse. Sighing, he scans the front page of yesterday’s paper that Jack had left on the counter, and wonders about time travel and second chances.

The grandfather clock chimes, merrily informing Gabe that it’s been over half an hour since he left Jesse in the bath.

It can’t hurt to check.

The hallway is quiet save for Jack’s continual snoring. There’s no splash of water, no humming of those romantic pop songs that Jesse likes so much. Just silence.

Gabe’s chest goes tight.

“Jesse?” he calls softly. No answer. He raps his knuckles gently against the door. “Jesse, you alright in there?”

Nothing.

Thankfully, the door is unlocked. Gabe finds himself holding his breath as he nudges it open.

“Oh, Jesse.”

Tear tracks glisten on Jesse’s cheeks, streaking through the crusted blood on face and leaving pink trails in their wake. He’s hunched over in the tub, staring dully at the wall with glassy, red-rimmed eyes. As Gabe takes a tentative step forward, Jesse sniffles, then hiccups. Gabe can do nothing but waver uselessly as Jesse cracks, shaking to pieces as a soft, mournful sob breaks past his lips.

For a moment, Gabe lets him be. He goes to turn on the radio that’s perched on the window sill, then uses his foot to nudge the bath stool over to the tub. The radio announcer mumbles on in low tones as Gabe settles down, reaching for the bottle of soap sitting on edge of the sink basin. At the same time he dips his fingers into the water — by now, it’s lukewarm at best. Jesse doesn’t seem to notice.

“C’mere. Let’s get you cleaned up.” Gabe keeps his voice soft. Jesse flinches slightly when Gabe reaches for him, but this time he allows Gabe to touch him. Lets him cradle the back of his head and splay a hand over his chest, dipping him back into the water to wet his greasy, matted hair.

His sobs have died down again; now he’s so pliant that he could be a living doll. The very idea strikes Gabe as so viscerally wrong that he almost recoils.

Instead, he unscrews the cap on the soap bottle and drizzles a generous amount into Jesse’s hair. From the window sill, the radio announcer fills the room with conversation for them, his voice muffled and soothing. “...the United States Weather Bureau has issued a hurricane warning as Hurricane Diane looms before the East Coast. Small ships have been warned to stay in port…”

Gabe slowly works Jesse’s hair into a lather, pushing his fingers through the tangled locks as best he can. By degrees, he can feel Jesse slumping back against the wall of the tub beneath his hands, tension oozing out of him in little shivers. On the radio, the announcer finishes his morning news segment and introduces the first song, the name of which Gabe doesn’t quite catch until a familiar brass section begins to play, sweet and melancholy.

“ _Des yeux qui font baisser les miens, un rire qui se perd sur sa bouche - voilà le portrait sans retouche de l’homme auquel j’appartiens…_ ”

Gabe hums along under his breath as he gently massages his fingertips into Jesse’s scalp, then squeezes the soap out to the ends of his hair; Jesse tilts his head slightly, as if listening. Then he grunts and squirms as Gabe tries to tug his fingers through a particularly tough knot. Gabe grimaces in sympathy as he blindly reaches for where he knows Jack’s comb is resting on the edge of the sink.

“ _Quand il me prend dans ses bras il me parle tout bas, je vois la vie en rose…_ ”

Jesse endures it quite bravely, only whimpering a few times as Gabe works the comb through his ratty hair lock by lock. In fact, he almost seems to enjoy the attention, squinting his uninjured eye like a cat with the occasional soothing press of Gabe’s fingers against his scalp. Gabe keeps at it until the comb glides through easily from root to end; not quite as smooth as silk, but Jesse’s hair at least feels less like it belongs to a grubby vagrant and more to a well-groomed dog.

Satisfied, Gabe turns his attention to the rest of Jesse. With a damp washcloth, he gingerly starts to wipe away the dirt and blood away from Jesse’s face. The cut on his cheek, once clean, looks much more superficial than it had the night before. His split lip is deep enough that it will probably scar. Jesse begins to help after a minute or two, clumsily scrubbing at his limbs and belly with his bare hands. The cool water quickly grows murky with grime.

Gabe leans back to examine his handiwork. “Well now. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so clean,” he teases, voice gentle. Jesse grins back weakly. Then he squeaks and goes rigid as Gabe dips his hand into the water behind Jesse to pull the plug, the back of his hand brushing against the prominent knobs of his spine. Jesse’s hands squirm between his legs to cover himself, face pinking as the water gurgles and begins to drain away.

Gabe only just resists the urge to roll his eyes, snorting quietly but otherwise saying nothing. He turns on the faucet and bullies Jesse back into the stream to rinse away the suds and leftover muck that still cling stubbornly to him.

As the hot water runs over his smooth brown skin, Jesse tips his head back in something like rapture, eye fluttering closed. A new song begins, this one much jauntier than the last, with a bouncy piano intro and lilting horn.

“There ain't nothing I can do, or nothing I can say, that folks don't criticize me. But I'm going to do just as I want to anyway...”

Gabe shuts off the faucet. Jesse reluctantly stands on legs as shaky as a newborn colt’s, shivering until Gabe drapes a towel over his shoulders and lifts it up to dry his hair. Jesse grumbles and wavers forward, off-balance. His chest bumps against Gabe’s; he glances up with one wary dark eye. Gabe is suddenly very aware of their closeness — he can feel the heat coming off of Jesse’s naked body, can see the droplets of water trembling at the ends of his long eyelashes.

The radio croons on.

“...If I go to church on Sunday, then cabaret all day Monday — ain't nobody's business if I do…”

Jesse’s throat works, eyebrows drawing together. Shyly, falteringly, he raises his hands, and Gabe’s breath catches as they settle on his chest, warm and trembling.

“Gabe,” he mumbles. Gabe finds himself tracking the way Jesse’s tongue darts out to wet his lips, pink and oh-so inviting. Without quite meaning to, he finds himself leaning forward as if drawn by a magnet.

The floorboards creak as Jesse presses closer.

Shame flushes hot through Gabe’s body, burning at his ears and his cheeks as he jerks back. He puts his hands on Jesse’s shoulders and holds him at arm’s-length, glancing away before he can see Jesse’s reaction.

He clears his throat loudly. “Let’s, ah. Let’s see if we can’t find you some clean clothes before we eat.”

Like the coward he is, he stumbles back. He nearly collides with the bathroom door before he regains his footing.

Jesse stays silent as Gabe fumbles with the door knob. After a moment, Gabe hears the soft padding of Jesse’s footsteps as he follows Gabe out into the corridor.

The radio trails after them.

“...I swear I won't call no copper if I'm beat up by my papa - ain't nobody's business if I do…”

. . .

The sky is overcast, the weak sun throwing the world into an undersaturated haze. As the month of September nears its end, so goes with it the brunt of the summer’s heat. A cool breeze tugs at the brim of Jesse’s hat as he strolls down the lane, and he tips his head back to feel it whisper against his face.

“Jesse McCree, that you?” Jesse freezes in his boots, glancing nervously over his shoulder, only to relax when he sees who’s called to him.

“Oh. Hiya, Mister Thompson.”

Jebediah Thompson lays down his push lawnmower, wiping his hands on his overalls as he approaches to the crooked picket fence that surrounds his front yard. It’s a rare sight, Mr. Thompson doing any sort of yardwork — the Thompsons spend the bulk of their free time in Albuquerque, and so their lawn is often left untended and overgrown.

“Junior! How ya been, boy?” Mr. Thompson crosses his arms and leans against the fence, beaming. “I seen you ‘round town, but I ain’t heard a peep outta you since—” He squints, clicking his tongue. “Hell, guess it woulda been that potluck back in May!” Jesse’s nervous smile turns more genuine when Mr. Thompson lets out a chuckle. “That stunt with the car was really somethin’ — you sure gave me and Maria a fright.”

Jesse rubs at the back of his neck, grimacing. “Uh, well, we was just—”

Mr. Thompson cuts him off with a laugh. “Oh, no need to explain, Junior. I was your age once, I know how it goes.” Jesse grins back, less tentatively this time.

He’s always liked the Thompsons. He has fond memories of visiting their house as a boy, back when fraternizing with the neighbors was something that the McCree family did. On one such occasion, his mama had spent the entire day preparing a huge platter of carnitas and homemade tortillas; Jesse still remembers the strong aroma of spiced meat that had hung in the McCree household for days afterwards, as well as the look of unadulterated delight on Mr. Thompson’s face when he’d opened the front door for his visitors.

They’ve always been kind to him, no matter what sort of trouble he’s caused. The both of them are effortlessly compassionate; Jesse sometimes wonders why they have no children of their own when it seems they’d make such wonderful parents. (Much better than his own father, certainly.)

He’d asked his mother, once, if only to whine that he didn’t have anyone to play with whenever they visited the Thompson’s house. She had only shrugged and said, in her stilted English, “Not everyone dream of having children, mijo.” Then she’d pinched his cheek. “Not even little devil like you.”

His father’s answer had been more confusing than enlightening at the time. Jesse, too curious to wait, had intruded on him working on the truck in the barn. Rather than scold him, McCree Sr. had paused with his wrench hovering in the air, frowning deeply.

“Well, the Thompsons.” He’d hesitated, mouth twisting back and forth. “Uh. Well, Jess. Far as I can tell, they ain’t a normal sort of folk. They ain’t exactly god-fearin’, you know. They’re of. Mm.” He sucked on his teeth. “Easy virtue, if you catch my drift.”

He seemed to realize he was talking to a child who did not, in fact, catch his drift after Jesse merely stared at him with wide eyes. He scratched his head and squinted down into the engine guts. “They ain’t family types, that’s all. Nothin’ wrong with it. It ain’t normal,” he added quickly. “But that’s alright.”

Only years later, after years of listening to rumors spread by cruel teenagers and even crueller adults, had Jesse managed to piece together some sort of half-truth. “My big brother said he saw Mister Thompson in the city in one of those bars, you know,” Albert Taub had whispered in dramatic tones, spinning a tale for his classmates in the schoolyard in the eighth grade. “Where the men dress like fairies and buy drinks for other men.” He’d declined to elaborate on why exactly his older brother had been hanging around one of those bars.

“I worry for that poor dear Maria sometimes,” Jesse had once overheard Mabel Huggan at a summer potluck, speaking in hushed tones to another clucking housewife. “I wonder if she gets very lonely, posing as that fellow’s beard?” Jesse still remembers the way his hackles had risen as he listened to them cackle.

“Maria Thompson?” This time, it had been a conversation between two farmers at the gas station just outside of town, on one of those rare occasions when Pa had brought Jesse along to Albuquerque to spend the day with him at the steelworks. “Oh, she’s a whore, all right. Just look at her funny and she’ll treat you right. And your wife, too!” The farmer chuckled, then turned his head and spat. “And her queer of a husband won’t lift a finger to stop it.”

All at once, Jesse is gripped by the bizarre urge to seize Mr. Thompson by the shoulders and shake him. Are you really like me, he wants to demand. Even a little bit?

“Jesse?”

He blinks, suddenly aware that Mr. Thompson had been speaking. “Uh. Sorry, Mister Thompson. Couldja repeat that?”

Mr. Thompson gives him an indulgent look. “I said, how’re the studies going?” Jesse blinks, bemused. “Y’know, at the church?” Father Reyes a good teacher?”

“O-oh. Yeah. I mean—” Jesse lets out a startled laugh before he can stop himself. “I’m not studyin’ to be a priest or nothin’ like that. Ga— Reyes’ just been teachin’ me to play chess.”

Mr. Thompson’s eyebrows crawl up to his hairline in evident surprise. “Oh! I see.” After a moment he shrugs, lips pulling down at the corners. “I just assumed since I seen you spending so much time in the rectory, comin’ and goin’, thought maybe you’d chosen that path of study. My mistake.” He grins. “Didn’t think you were much the type for church anyhow.”

Jesse smiles back for lack of anything else to say, all too self-conscious. His hand bumps the brim of his hat as he scratches at the back of his head. “No sir, can’t say I am.”

If only the explanation for his newfound residence were that simple. Jesse hasn’t been back to the farmhouse for weeks, now, not since— (On the odd occasion, he catches himself wondering if Pa is worried about him, if he’s even noticed Jesse’s absence.)

Fortunately Gabe had been gracious enough to give Jesse a temporary place to stay in one of the spare rooms in the rectory. While Jesse appreciates the roof over his head, the bare walls and dusty emptiness of the room admittedly unsettle him. At times he lies awake at night, staring at the dark ceiling with nothing but the crucifix above his head for company, and in those moments he feels so dreadfully alone that he yearns for nothing more than to flee to Gabe’s room and crawl into his bed once again, if only for the sake of closeness.

(Even if he yearns for so much more.)

Still — it beats sleeping outside. And if Morrison does a double take the first time he stumbles into the kitchen, yawning, to see Jesse wolfing down a plate of bacon and eggs, he still hasn’t said anything on the matter.

Mr. Thompson clears his throat, and goes on in more sincere tones: “Whatever you been up to, then, I think it’s doin’ you well.” He tips his head, looking Jesse up and down. “You look good, Jesse. Finally gettin’ some meat on your bones. Maria was worried for a bit, y’know.”

Perhaps it’s merely Jesse’s imagination, but that could be a gleam of appreciation in Mr. Thompson’s pale gaze. The very notion makes Jesse preen slightly, puffing out his chest as his cheeks flush with pleasure. Mr. Thompson isn’t exactly a classically handsome man, weather-beaten and prematurely aged, but Jesse likes the idea that he might be considered an object of desire, worthy of a second glance.

“Gee— Thank you, Mr. Thompson,” he murmurs, trying to play coquettish by dipping his head and fluttering his eyelashes. He must do it a little too well, because Mr. Thompson suddenly coughs and leans back from the fence, looking slightly spooked.

“W-well, I better get back to work before Missus Thompson gets after me,” he chuckles nervously, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the lawn mower. Then he hesitates, and adds, more gently, “Don’t be a stranger now. You ever need help, well, me and Maria are here.”

Jesse nods jerkily, heart fluttering oddly in his chest as he bids Mr. Thompson farewell and continues on down the road.

It doesn’t take him long to reach the Junkyard. Johnny, charming fella that he is, had managed to secure himself an apprenticeship under the tutelage of the Junkers. It is generally agreed upon that the pair of them are a couple of kooks and their property an eyesore, but no one in town will deny that they are masterful mechanics. Jesse’s certainly broken into their scrapyard often enough, a few times to swipe parts that Pa had needed for his truck and didn’t quite feel like coughing up cash for, and on one or two occasions to take one of their finished projects for a joyride.

At least the Junkers don’t seem to hold any grudges towards him for it, though he’s been caught red-handed plenty of times. Certainly not Mr. Fawkes, who rolls out from beneath a rusty, dented Cadillac and gives Jesse a slightly deranged grin as he saunters into the hangar-like garage.

“Good seein’ ya, McCree. You here for Johnny?” He flaps his hand before Jesse can answer, cackling. “‘Course you are. He’s round back with Rutledge, just finishing up for the day.” Without another word he rolls back underneath the Cadillac, muttering under his breath and beating at something on the undercarriage.

The first few times Jesse had spoken to Fawkes, his thick Australian accent had been so difficult to parse that Jesse he’d thought he was speaking a different language entirely. He still had trouble believing that an entire country of people spoke English like that.

“Thanks, Mister Fawkes.” Jesse gingerly picks his way through the metal scrap and engine parts that litter the concrete floor as he makes his way to the back wall of the garage. He glances down for a moment to straighten out his shirt — borrowed from Gabe, and while a little baggy, probably the nicest thing Jesse’s ever worn — and then proceeds to almost bowl right into a massive figure looming in the doorway. “Jesus— Oh, uh. Hey there, Mister Rutledge.”

Sturdy as a tree trunk and three times as wide around, Mr. Rutledge stares silently down at him, vast shoulders heaving with his breaths. At least Jesse thinks he’s staring; he doesn’t think he’s ever seen Rutledge without a welding mask on.

He jumps as Rutledge huffs loudly, making a noise like a snorting pig. “Corvette,” he grunts, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder before shoving past Jesse and lumbering out into the main garage. 

“Thanks,” Jesse says in a small voice, flinching as the door slams shut behind him. He lets out the breath he didn’t know he was holding and shakes himself; he doesn’t know how Johnny can stand to be around a fella like that all day.

The back garage is more of a haphazard mess than the front. Jesse does his best to tread carefully, unsure of what’s junk and what’s potentially priceless, only to circle around a massive workbench and immediately go sprawling over an open box of tools with a resounding clatter.

“Watch it, bonehead.”

Jesse catches himself at the last second just in time to flip Johnny off. “Fuck off,” he grumbles, even as an easy grin tugs at the corners of his lips. “How’s it goin’, Johnny?”

Johnny nods absently, wiping his sweaty brow with the back of his hand and smearing engine grease across his forehead in the process. “It’s goin’. Ordered in a few more parts yesterday. At this rate, I figure I can get this baby up and runnin’ by the end of the month.” The Junkers had been especially generous with Johnny’s apprenticeship; they’d found a totalled ‘53 Chevrolet Corvette in a scrapyard near Santa Fe and had it hauled back to Dry Creek for next to nothing. It had become Johnny’s pet project, and as far as Jesse understands, once it was fixed, Johnny would get to keep it.

“She’s comin’ along real nice,” Jesse says reverently, approaching the driver’s side and smoothing a hand across the brand new paint-job. Johnny had gotten some cash from his father as an early birthday present, and, after hammering out all the dents, he’d splurged nearly all of it on a light blue coat of paint to contrast with the new red leather seats. The car still doesn’t run, but it sure is nice to look at.

Johnny is nice to look at as well, leaning against the front bumper and looking for all the world like a proud father. Jesse finds himself fixating on the way Johnny’s torn, greasy jeans hug at his hips, admiring the swell of his chest beneath the thin fabric of his oil-stained tank top. Jesse’s eyes track a bead of sweat as it makes its way down the grimy column of Johnny’s throat, pooling in the dip of his collarbone.

Johnny must’ve caught him looking. There is a distinctly hungry look in his eyes as he circles around the open hood towards where Jesse is standing beside the driver’s side door. His hip bumps against Jesse’s, and Jesse swallows hard as Johnny grips firmly at his waist.

“And when she’s done, we can take her out for a spin,” Johnny murmurs, leaning in close, until Jesse can feel his warm breath puff across his cheek. “Go somewhere real private, just you and me.” Jesse shivers, an instinctive rumble rising in his throat.

The upside to the fellas going to college — now that it’s just Johnny and him, Johnny has grown bolder than ever. He touches Jesse freely when they’re alone, even occasionally reciprocating Jesse’s favors when he’d never deigned to do so before. Jesse has never come more quickly than the first time Johnny had spent himself all over Jesse’s face, then reached down to clumsily jerk him off, calloused grip unsure but delicious around Jesse’s cock.

What’s more, he allows Jesse to touch him back. “Yeah?” Jesse croaks, tentatively giving into the urge to smooth a hand down Johnny’s breast. Manual labor has been kind to him, the muscles of his chest growing firm and plump. “Well—” He leans in, lips brushing against the shell of Johnny’s ear. He feels Johnny shudder against him. “If you get it done in time for your birthday, I’ll give you a real nice present. Right in your brand new car.”

Johnny tilts his head back as if thinking, even as he worries at his lower lip. “It ain’t got a bench seat—”

“Dummy.” Johnny inhales sharply as Jesse brushes his knuckles against the front of his jeans, which are starting to tent out. “That’s why I’d sit in your lap.” Johnny twitches against his fingers, and he chuckles. “Down, boy.”

Johnny’s hand settles against Jesse’s jaw. He leans into it, eyes going half-lidded like a satisfied cat. A calloused thumb catches at his skin as it rubs against the corner of his mouth, just to the side of the deep tear in Jesse’s lower lip, which has just begun to lighten into a scar. He catches the brief wrinkle of concern on Johnny’s brow, but wisely Johnny says nothing. Jesse had quickly shut down that avenue of conversation the first time he’d shown up at Johnny’s work with a busted face; still unsettled by Gabe, Jesse had snarled at him like a mad dog until Johnny had backed off and dropped the matter.

When they’re alone in their own little world like this, flirting badly and exchanging tender touches, it’s easy to forget about everything else. Jesse can pretend that Johnny hasn’t been debating on taking a trip to Albuquerque to look at engagement rings. He can forget about his father, with his vicious drunken slurs and heavy fists; he can almost forget about the affectionate look on Gabe’s face as he’d leaned in with soft eyes and parted lips, only to jerk back as if he’d been burned.

(Maybe, _maybe_.)

It would be so much simpler, he thinks, if he could have just this forever.

In the meantime, he pretends when he can. He doesn’t want to examine his feelings for Gabe, nor his guilt towards Johnny’s girl — this is the best he’s going to have, and he’ll damnedest to preserve it, even as the steady crawl of time threatens to collapse the fine balance he’s managed to establish.

For now, he just leans in to kiss Johnny, and doesn’t think at all.

. . .

It happens on a late autumn night, when the first thunderstorm of the season is steadily rolling in and staining the sky gloomy purple and grey.

The living room is especially cozy tonight in preparation for the bitter weather, a healthy fire crackling away on the hearth, and the rich scent of roast ham and buttery mashed potatoes hanging heavy in the air. Gabe and Jack are settled on the couch, yawning like the old men they are and occasionally sniping back and forth about the news. In the kitchen Jesse is eagerly piling his plate high with a second helping of dinner; he’s developed a voracious appetite for Jack’s mashed potatoes in particular.

On screen, a courier hurries in from the left side of the news room, her expression worryingly blank. Gabe sits up straight, apprehension seizing at his chest as she hands the news anchor a sheet of paper and leans in to murmur something in his ear. The anchor’s face grows grim; Gabe’s blood runs cold.

“What is it?” Jack murmurs, straightening up beside him. “Surely not Vietnam?...”

“I— Breaking news, folks.” Both Gabe and Jack lean forward, listening with bated breath. “Breaking, tragic news, and I fear this’ll hit hard with you young folks at home. At 6:20 p.m., Pacific Standard Time — that’s a little under four hours ago — Hollywood actor James Dean was pronounced dead en route to Paso Robles War Memorial Hospital.” The anchor grimaces down at the paper. “According to local authorities, Dean was involved in a high-speed automobile collision at the junction of Route 466 and 41 near the town of Cholame, California…”

Gabe slumps back against the couch cushions, letting out a slow hiss of relief. It’s tragic, sure — but at least it’s no declaration of war.

He gasps as something shatters behind him. He twists around, pulse leaping in his throat — and his heart sinks when he sees Jesse standing in the entryway to the kitchen, eyes wide and jaw slack. His hands hang loosely in front of him, his plate of food on the floor in pieces.

“What?” he whispers, barely audible above the television.

“A rising star at twenty-four years old, Dean was well known for his starring role in the the film _East of Eden_ , which was released in theaters across the country in April this year. The actor’s tragic death comes a month before the release of his newest film, _Rebel Without A Cause_ —”

A shocked sob bursts past Jesse’s lips. Without a second thought, Gabe is pushing himself to his feet and limping around the couch, one hand outstretched.

“Jesse—”

He sways in place helplessly as Jesse turns on his heel and flees the room. Moments later the walls rattle as the door to the garden slams shut.

On television, the anchor has switched over to tomorrow’s weather; outside, thunder rumbles.

The sofa creaks as Jack begins to rise. “Should we go—” he begins, uncertain.

“I’ll talk to him,” Gabe quickly interrupts. Jesse and Jack have only just begun to tolerate one another, and Jack’s certain brand of drill sergeant comfort isn’t what Jesse needs right now. It’s telling enough that Jack looks relieved as he settles back on the couch.

Gabe pauses to grab his cane from where it’s leaning against the arm of the couch, then follows after Jesse as quickly as he’s able. It’s nearly pitch-black outside. The thunderstorm is blotting out the moon and the stars. Damp, biting wind buffets Gabe as soon as he shuts the door behind himself, seeping through his thin casualwear and chilling him to the bone.

“Jesse?”

Gabe can only just make out the dark shape of him in the soft light cast from the kitchen window. He’s curled up on the doorstep, clutching his legs tightly to his chest with his chin pillowed on his knees. As Gabe gently shuts the door, Jesse’s whole being trembles.

Gabe’s chest aches.

He reaches out and tentatively brushes a hand over Jesse’s shoulder. A tremor wracks Jesse’s frame, but he leans into Gabe’s touch all the same. “I’m sorry, Jess,” Gabe murmurs, grunting as he eases himself down to sit beside Jesse, the stone beneath them cold and unforgiving. “I know how much he meant to you.” A gentle lie.

Jesse throws his head back and lets out a blood-chilling wail. His face is only just visible in the dim light, tear-streaked and snotty, eyes squeezed shut and lips pulled back to reveal gritted teeth. Only once in his life has Gabe seen someone so bereaved by the death of a total stranger. The memory flashes before his eyes, vivid and gruesome: a German soldier, a boy who couldn’t have been older than eighteen, howling his misery as he clutched at a mangled mess of gore and gristle stuffed into an American field uniform, uncaring of the loops of intestines spilling out of the ruptured belly.

He feels just as powerless in the face of such unadulterated sorrow, though at least this time he isn’t under orders to give no quarter. Instead he soothes his hand down Jesse’s quivering back, leaning in to murmur comforting nonsense into Jesse’s hair.

“He was— he was only five years older than me,” Jesse finally chokes out, rubbing furiously at his eyes with the heel of his palm. “I was gonna— I was gonna go to Hollywood and meet ‘im someday, I was gonna shake his hand an’ say, you’re the reason I’m around at all—”

Gabe goes still, hand pausing at the shaking bow of Jesse’s spine.

“What do you mean,” he whispers.

Jesse stiffens, then slumps, wiping at his nose with the back of his hand. “When that. That movie came out.” He sniffles loudly, leaning heavily into Gabe’s side. “East of Eden. Pa was drinkin’ hard, ‘cause it was that day seven years ago that my mama—” He lets out a shuddering breath. “He, he says to me: I wish it’d you who’d gone, ‘stead of your mama— he hollers, I want my Rosa back—”

Jesse breaks again, just for a moment, burying his face in Gabe’s shoulder to muffle his sob. Then he breathes in sharply, and settles. Gabe’s free hand is curled into a white-knuckled fist atop his knee, the only evidence of the fury building in his chest like a roar.

“He—” Jesse chuckles humorlessly and makes a vague flapping motion with one of his hands. “I ran. I was gonna go to the train tracks. I thought, if I got smashed to tiny pieces by some big steamer, maybe then he’d be upset. Then he’d feel sorry. But.” He hiccups. “It was on the way, so I went to the drive-in instead. An’ that movie was playin’ its first night, an’ I just sat there, an’ watched the whole thing without movin’, an’ I thought: here’s a fella like me. Even if the story weren’t real, he made it feel real, like he understood what it was like—”

With a low, mournful keen, Jesse lurches forward and breaks into a fresh wave of tears. Gabe grimaces, hand resuming in its wandering path up and down Jesse’s spine. Uncertainty, helplessness: both feelings that Gabe would rather burn out of his very being, if he were able.

“I’m sure he would’ve loved to have met you,” he tries, keeping his voice low and gentle. Then, hesitantly, he adds, “If you want, we can say a prayer for him.”

Jesse sniffles again, wiping his damp cheeks on Gabe’s sleeve. After a moment, he nods.

This, in the very least, is something that Gabe is familiar with. He guides Jesse through it phrase by phrase, voice low and steady where Jesse’s is trembling and stilted.

“Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord…”

Jesse chokes on his Amen. When he’s finished, his shoulders slump, head drooping low like a marionette with its strings cut.

For a minute they sit side by side, the silence filled by rain drumming on the roof of the porch. Then Gabe tenses as lightning cracks across the sky, casting the land into stark relief for a split second. Moments later thunder rumbles violent and angry, like a leviathan beast roaring its displeasure to the heavens.

A fine sweat breaks out beneath his collar despite the chill in the air. Perhaps a little too quickly, he croaks, “Why don’t we go back inside? You still haven’t eaten—”

For some reason, it’s the wrong thing to say. Jesse tenses against him, then curls away, bristling like an angry cat. “I don’t wanna eat,” he bites out.

Sudden frustration bubbles up in Gabe’s throat like acid. “Jesse—”

“Leave me alone, OK?” Gabe’s jaw drops. Then, softly: “I just wanna be alone right now.”

It’s only the pleading note in Jesse’s voice that has Gabe biting back his irritated sigh. Jesse’s mercurial affections are among one of the most infuriating things he’s ever encountered.

“Alright,” he bites out. “Just come inside soon. You’ll catch your death in this storm.”

Jesse says nothing, merely curling back up into a ball. Just short of growling, Gabe grabs for his cane and pushes himself to his feet, only to reel backwards as his knee gives out, aching fiercely from the cold and the damp. He grunts as his back hits the door; Jesse doesn’t move.

Exasperation grips at Gabe’s throat, but he makes himself shut the door with exaggerated care. In the warmth of the kitchen, with the television still murmuring away in the other room, Gabe is struck by a sudden, bone-deep weariness. He drags a hand down his face, squeezing his eyes shut as he sucks in a shuddering breath, then relaxes.

“Gabe?” Gabe drops his hand and schools his expression into poised blankness as Jack peeks his head into the kitchen. If he saw anything, he doesn’t comment. “Is he…?”

“I tried,” Gabe says simply, lifting his shoulders in a half-hearted shrug. Jack nods slowly, giving him a weak grin.

“Like having our own kid, isn’t it?” Gabe makes a face, immediately mentally recoiling from that image. Jack chuckles softly. “Well, maybe not,” he amends. “I’m sure any kid you raised would be much better behaved.”

“He’s just— so heartbroken,” Gabe sighs as he limps over to the kitchen counter to put the kettle on. “I never knew someone to get so upset over an actor, of all things. Of all things!”

“Well, he’s an emotional boy,” Jack grunts. Gabe can feel his concerned gaze trained on the back of his head as he rummages around in the cupboard for his favorite teacup. “Bit of an oddball, you know.”

Don’t I, Gabe thinks moodily. Fatigue is threatening to drag him under, rendering him grouchy and nonverbal. Fortunately, Jack is never one to push for unnecessary conversation.

A little over half an hour later, Gabe steps back out onto the porch, a fresh plate of food in hand, but Jesse is nowhere to be found.

He doesn’t come back that night.

. . .

Pa isn’t home when Jesse steals into the farmhouse at almost midnight to raid his liquor cabinet. Jesse thinks he sees him anyway as he passes by the mirror in the hallway, which is illuminated by a single bare lightbulb. He stops in front of it, staring at himself with wide eyes and unscrewing the cap of the whisky bottle with cold-numb fingers. He doesn’t break eye contact with his unblinking reflection as he puts his lips to the bottle and tilts his head back, taking a long, hard pull.

It’s cheap and it burns like fire going down, but he doesn’t stop until the room is spinning around him like a carousel. Finally he lets the bottle fall to the floor with a thud, the scent of cheap alcohol stinging at his nose as it spills everywhere, staining into the carpet and wooden floorboards. Pa will be furious when he sees it.

Jesse can’t muster up the energy to care.

He hasn’t set foot in this place in almost a month. The stale mustiness of the air catches in his lungs like smoke, and suddenly he can’t stand it, swaying here among the piles of garbage and newspapers and booze bottles that have only doubled in size since he’d last been here.

He sets out once more into the night.

The drink strengthens him, rendering him numb to the pouring rain. It feels like he’s got fire itching in his veins; he wants to scream and claw and punch, to fight. Instead, he’s just left to stare at the water gathering in fat droplets on the brim of his hat, clothes quickly soaking through to his skin as he stumbles down the dirt road that leads into town.

He can’t say for sure how long he walks; time is a nebulous concept through the storm and the liquor haze. His next point of awareness is meandering down the main road, peering into the gloomy storefronts. The soft glow of the streetlights makes the glass reflect back at him, his face looming warped and ethereal in the dark.

He considers putting his fist through it.

A few hundred feet in the distance, one of the buildings is lit up like a beacon. It’s the saloon — as Jesse staggers onward, he can hear the too-loud chatter of drunken voices. There’s a group of men huddled on the front porch, leaning against the railing and smoking. It’s crowded despite the storm; it’s a Friday night, after all.

Jesse means to walk on by, meandering towards some unknown destination. Maybe he’ll take a swim in the river, he thinks, almost hysterically. But one of them calls out as he approaches: “Hey, ain’t that Junior?”

He doesn’t stop at first, until the man hollers again. “McCree Junior! Can’t you see I’m talkin’ to you?” Jesse slowly comes to a halt just beneath the porch awning, swaying slightly, and hesitantly tilts his head up. It’s too dark and his vision too hazy to recognize much more than the flash of a cruel grin and a pair of beady eyes squinting down at him.

“Boy, don’t you look like a drowned rat? What you doin’, walkin’ around in a storm like this?” The man pushes away from the railing and stomps down the stairs to the sidewalk, hooking his thumbs in his belt as he swaggers forward with all the confidence of a drunken man surrounded by his equally drunken friends. For a moment, Jesse just blinks at him. “What are you, deaf?”

As the man steps into the warm glow of the streetlight, dread coils in Jesse’s gut like a snake.  
It’s Henry Nelson, a dumb, hulking ox of a boy who’d been the bane of Jesse’s existence until his family had moved to Texas in Jesse’s sophomore year. Not before Jesse had smashed his nose in three different places.

Nelson leers down at him, and Jesse’s viciously pleased to see that his nose hasn’t set well at all. “I come back for a visit after three years, and this is the welcome I get from my best pal?”

“Aw, lay off him, Henry,” one of the other men jeers from the porch. “Everyone knows the McCrees are a buncha dimwits. He just can’t understand you, that’s all.”

“Or maybe he just doesn’t speak English,” another one snickers into his beer bottle. “Don’t think they do much of that in Mexico.”

That draws a whoop from the crowd. Nelson throws his head back and cackles, clearly pleased with himself; he’s found his friends a new source of entertainment for the night.

Jesse’s outnumbered. He sucks in a calming breath, then steps to the side, intending to go around Nelson — only to find his path blocked. Nelson sneers, baring his crooked teeth. “What’s the matter, McCree?” he whispers, grinning from ear to ear. “Gonna run away with your tail between your legs, you little mutt?”

Jesse’s hands curl into fists at his sides.

Nelson stoops down to his eye level. “Go on then,” he murmurs. “Run away. Just like your wetback whore of a mother.”

A collective intake of breath hisses from the watching crowd.

Jesse can barely hear it over the sudden roar of blood in his ears.

With a crunch and a yelp, Nelson staggers back, clutching at his newly re-shattered nose. Jesse staggers back and shakes out his hand, vaguely aware of the dull pain in his knuckles but more occupied with watching blood spurt down Nelson’s chin in a satisfying cascade.

Nelson screams into his hand through gritted teeth. “You’re dead, you little faggot!” Adrenaline surges through Jesse’s veins at the metallic snick of a switchblade flicking open.

Shouting from the sidelines: “Henry, put that thing away, Jesus Christ—”

Jesse doesn’t care about the knife. He lets out a ragged yell and lunges forward, hands outstretched towards Nelson’s throat. Their bodies collide with a solid thud, sending them both toppling to the ground.

Pain sears hot in Jesse’s right shoulder. He ignores it, more focused on reeling back his fist to smash it into Nelson’s face. His head bounces against the pavement with a satisfying crack. Jesse listens in delirious satisfaction as he gurgles and spits blood — he’s bitten his tongue in half.

A flash of silver. Jesse raises his arms on reflex, cries out as the blade slashes once across his forearms, then hooks back again. It bites into his tender flesh, leaving bright swathes of pain in its evil wake.

His hand shoots out to seize Nelson’s arm on its next arc through the air. Out of pure feral instinct, he sinks his teeth into Nelson’s wrist, feeling the delicate tendons crunch beneath his teeth as they grind down to the bone. Blood rolls across his tongue, hot and coppery. Nelson lets out a deafening howl, thrashing; the knife drops to the ground with a clatter.

Someone is screaming. Jesse’s vaguely aware of the roiling surge of bodies all around him but he’s too busy winding up to lay another blow into Nelson’s face, then again, and again, and again, and _again_ —

He pulls his lips back in a high-pitched snarl as he feels countless hands yanking at him, wrestling him back. He changes tactics, wrapping his hands around Nelson’s throat. “McCree, you’re gonna kill him, get off of him, for God’s sake—” Something slams into the back of Jesse’s head, and he flags, vision wavering.

It’s not _fair_. He’s not _done_.

Big, solid arms wrap around his middle. “Come on, kid, get off of him, come on.”

“Rosie?” he slurs. His vision dims.

There’s no screaming. It’s a siren.

“Come on, Jesse, let go. You’ve done enough.”

Jesse doesn’t understand. He’s not holding onto anything. He’s floating.

Drifting into the dark.

. . .

The call comes at eight o’clock in the morning. Gabe is in the middle of stumbling around the kitchen making breakfast, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and yawning widely. He jumps when the phone begins to ring. For a moment he just regards it with wary eyes, a vague sense of dread curling into a pit in his empty stomach.

“Our Lady of Guadalupe. Father Reyes speaking.”

“Father. Apologies for the early call.” Gabe closes his eyes, heart sinking. It’s Sheriff Rosenthal. “I. Um.” He clears his throat over the line. “There’s been an incident.”

Gabe tightly grips the edge of the counter. God damn it, Jesse.

“What happened.”

“It’s Jesse.” Gabe had already known this, but hearing it still makes his blood run cold. “This is a bit unorthodox, I know, but I can’t get ahold of the kid’s father, and I know he’s been spendin’ a lot of time with you folks at the church—”

“What. Happened.”

“He got in a fight. Nasty fight, just outside the bar.” It’s still raining outside. Gabe stares blankly out the window, jamming a thumb into one of his temples in lieu of screaming. “Now, Jesse came out OK. Spent the night in one of the cells at the station, drunk as a skunk. He’s a bit cut up, other guy had a knife.” Rosenthal lowers his voice, as if spreading gossip. “Other guy — name of Henry Nelson, bit of an idiot — had to be driven to the hospital in Albuquerque.”

God _damn_ it.

“OK—” Gabe breaks off, inhaling sharply through his nose. “OK. What, uh— What—” His words are failing him. He glances down at his hands and realizes that he’s shaking.

Over the line, Rosenthal audibly hesitates. “I was gonna release him into your custody,” he admits. “I’m not exactly s’posed to do this since you’re not next of kin, but. Hell. Heck. I don’t trust his father one bit, and I got no idea where the guy’s gone to anyway.”

“Will Jesse be.” Gabe’s struggling to keep his voice from trembling. “Is he going to be taken to court.”

Static bursts over the line, maybe a snort. “If they do, he won’t get a sentence. Not if I can help it. Bastard pulled a knife on him. Whatever Jesse did, it was in self-defense.” Then, grudgingly: “Worse that happens is that the McCrees will have to pay Nelson’s hospital bills.”

Silence. Gabe’s at a loss for words.

When Rosenthal speaks again, it’s gentler. “I’m worried sick too, y’know. Jesse’s— he’s a punk, that’s for sure, but he’s not. He reminds me a lot of my own son.” Then, after a moment, “Ah, before he died.”

Thunder rumbles outside; the storm is showing no sign of letting up. Gabe exhales softly. He feels hollow, as if someone’s reached into his belly and scooped away his innards with a spoon. “My condolences.”

“Ah. Years ago now. It’s.” More static over the line — perhaps a sigh, this time. They sit in silence for a moment. “Anyway. Should I have him dropped off at the rectory? He needs to get cleaned up.”

“Yes.” It comes out more tersely than Gabe intends, so he tacks on, more gently: “Thank you, Sheriff.”

“Ah, anytime now. Take care, Father.”

Gabe sets the phone down in the receiver as gently as he can.

Then he turns and slumps against the counter, legs trembling as he slides down the kitchen cabinets and drops heavily to the floor. The first dry sob bursts past his lips before he can sink his teeth into it, then the next, and the next, choking him until he sucks in a huge breath and holds it.

He buries his face in his hands, shuddering. He can feel the cracks forming beneath his skin, the slightest push threatening to shatter him to pieces. How much longer can he deal with this, he wonders in despair, before he breaks entirely?

He takes another deep breath, then falls still. Pointlessly, he wipes his face; there weren’t any tears to begin with.

It’s a few minutes before he feels able to stand, bracing his hands on the counter to push himself to his feet. He shuffles over to the kitchen sink and splashes his face with cold water, a welcome shock to his system. A couple bites of his breakfast find it tasteless, so he upends the plate into the garbage. It’s fine; he’s not hungry anymore anyway.

He’s waiting on the front steps of the rectory when the patrol car pulls up to the sidewalk just before the church. It’s not Rosenthal behind the wheel; it’s an officer that Gabe only vaguely recognizes who refuses to make eye contact as Jesse stumbles out of the back seat. He pulls away as soon as the car door slams shut, leaving Jesse to shiver uncertainly in the rain.

Jesse is a sight to behold: a grimy, blood-soaked mess. His shirt is torn open at the right shoulder, exposing a deep gash from the crook of his neck to ridge of his collarbone. His forearms are caked in dried blood, though it looks as if he’d at least been given the liberty of washing his hands, which are scrubbed clean to reveal split knuckles. The skin around his mouth is also stained crimson, though from what Gabe isn’t certain.

“They couldn’t be bothered to clean you up, huh,” he says flatly.

Jesse merely shrugs. “I dunno.” His voice is hoarse, lips dry and cracking. “I wasn’t awake.”

Gabe pinches the bridge of his nose, taking a deep steadying breath. “OK.” He’s doing his best to stay calm, even as he’s gripped by the overwhelming urge to smack Jesse up the back of the head for worrying him so badly. “I’ll run a bath.”

After a moment, Jesse follows him inside, gait slow and uneven. He’s unusually quiet as he trails after Gabe, coming to a halt in the doorway to the washroom. He’s also swaying slightly. Rosenthal had said he was drunk; Gabe has to wonder just how hung over he is.

Perhaps a bit meanly, he turns on the radio anyway. The music blares out, for a moment all tin and static, and Gabe watches with vindictive pleasure as Jesse winces and rubs at the back of his head.

“—every time I look at you, something's on my mind. If you do what I want you to, baby, we'd be so fine!”

Gabe’s movements are terse, jerky, as he drapes a towel over the edge of the tub and leans forward to twist on the faucet. Give, give, give, he thinks morosely, he all he ever does is give, but when will he ever get anything in return—

“Gabe?” Jesse’s voice is small, uncertain. “Are you angry?”

Gabe’s temper breaks. “What the hell do you think?” he hisses, whirling around before he can stop himself. “Goddammit, Jesse, why do you have to pull stunts like this, huh?” Jesse flinches, shrinking back against the door as Gabe advances on him, jabbing a finger at his chest. “You know, when Rosenthal called, I thought you’d died. I thought he’d found you in a ditch somewhere. I was terrified, all because you— you—”

Jesse is frozen with fear, trembling in his boots. This isn’t how this was meant to go. Gabe chokes on his own anger and takes a step back, drooping back against the edge of the tub as his knee gives out. Hot pain throbs up and down his spine. He sucks in a shuddering breath, digging this thumb and forefinger into his eyelids until white spots burst before his eyes like starlight.

“Oh, life could be a dream if I could take you up in paradise up above, if you would tell me I’m the only one that you love—”

The floorboards creak. Gabe inhales softly as slender arms wrap around his shoulders, a trembling body worming in between his legs and pressing flush to his front.

“I’m sorry.” Jesse’s voice is raspy and creaky in his ear. “I’m sorry, Gabe, I didn’t mean to— I didn’t wanna scare you.”

Just like that, all of the fight bleeds from Gabe’s body, seeping away like water down a drain. He slumps forward, sighing heavily through his nose. The day has just begun, and he’s already weary to his core.

“I know you didn’t,” he mumbles into the crook of Jesse’s neck. He reaches up to push his fingers into Jesse’s hair, soothing against his scalp. There’s a crusted patch of blood here; he must’ve been struck on the back of the head. “I know you didn’t, Jesse.”

He’s not sure how long they stay like that, Jesse’s chin pillowed on his shoulder while Gabe slowly strokes his hair. Long enough for the shivers to die from Jesse’s body, until he’s just a pleasant warmth settled between Gabe’s legs.

Finally, Jesse sniffles and pulls his head back a little, peering cautiously at Gabe as if gauging his expression. Their faces are scant inches apart. Jesse’s lips tremble; his pink tongue darts out to wet them.

This close, Gabe stumbles upon a revelation: Jesse’s dark eyes are flecked with gold.

This is a familiar scene. This time, Gabe doesn’t pull away.

Jesse’s lips are cracked and tacky and stained with the sweet taste of copper, and Gabe finds himself tentatively tilting his head for more. Cold hands cup his jaw, Jesse gently smoothing his thumbs through the beard at either corner of Gabe’s mouth.

It’s over as soon as it’s begun. Jesse’s hands come to rest on Gabe’s shoulders, tensing and untensing as if he’s preparing to bolt. He relaxes as Gabe tips their foreheads together, the soft wash of Jesse’s breath warm and sour across Gabe’s mouth.

They don’t say a word.

From the window sill, the radio croons on:

“—life could be a dream, life could be a dream, sweetheart!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alternate name for this fic is "jesse cries, a lot"
> 
> thank you as always to maren for brainstorming with me, as well as to cass for beta reading this chapter!


	6. All Hallow's Eve

Jesse follows the low whirr of the sewing machine.

Since the first week of October, the rectory has been home to its ever-present hum. A heap of child-sized costumes steadily grows in one corner of the spare guest room: a jumbled mismatch of small white angel robes and crimson finery fit for little devils. A collection of witches’ cloaks are draped over the dresser in pleasing swatches of bottle-green and mulberry. The first several failed attempts at a wizard’s hat, lumpy and misshapen, lay rejected on the bare mattress.

Gabe has proven himself to be a prodigal seamster. Difficult not to pick up a thing or two from a childhood spent with seven sisters, he had joked. He’d recruited Jack and Jesse to haul the full-size Singer table up from the cellar — where it had apparently been collecting dust for years after the previous sister had left — leaning heavily on his cane and instructing them how to carry it so as not to leave gouges in the walls.

He’d claimed it as merely a bad day, but Jesse thinks otherwise. With autumn has come the beginnings of the winter chill, with morning frost that lingers too long for comfort and bitter winds that seep deep into the bones. Jesse remembers how Pa had complained about the cold biting at his old war wounds; he can’t imagine it’s much different for Gabe.

He certainly can’t think of any other reason for why Gabe has reduced himself to something like a morose hermit, sequestering himself in his little sewing room, surfacing only when prodded for meals, and church services, and games of chess, and the occasional hobbling walk into town. And when he does emerge, he’s often distractible and snappish, his usual unwavering patience all but gone.

Today, it’s already noon and Jesse doesn’t think that Gabe has even emerged for breakfast yet. He doesn't bother knocking before quietly pushing open the door to the sewing room.

For a brief moment, he just stands in the doorway, tipping his head against the frame to watch. Gabe’s profile is set in stern concentration, the strong slope of his nose and gentle pout of his lips illuminated by the warm glow of a nearby desk lamp. His big fingers are surprisingly nimble as they direct the fabric beneath the thrumming needle. His good leg steadily works the foot pedal, lending a rhythmic dance to his shoulders.

Jesse wants to kiss him. That’s the thing: he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to now.

He shuffles forward anyway, the floorboards slick against his stockinged feet. Gabe makes a inquisitive noise in his throat, like the soft trill of a cat, as Jesse stoops down press his lips to the corner of his mouth. The sewing machine whirrs to a halt.

“Todo bien?” he rumbles, tipping his head back against Jesse’s chest. _All’s well_?

“Ta bueno.” Gabe had at least made good on his promise to teach Jesse a little Spanish during their chess games. Mostly basic things that Jesse had known, once, but had long since forgotten. Hello, good-bye, how are you, how have you been; have you a sister, a brother? How is the weather, Jesse? How is your father, Jesse? Has he still anger in his heart and liquor in his veins?

Jesse blinks. He shakes his head, refocuses his eyes. Gabe’s lips are soft beneath his as he tilts forward to kiss Gabe more fully — and Gabe turns his head away, Jesse’s mouth sliding uselessly against the stubbly edge of his jaw.

That’s the thing: he doesn’t know _what’s_ allowed now.

He chuckles despite the sudden tightness in his throat, drawing back to an appropriate distance and hugging his arms to his chest. “Are you sewin’ me a devil costume?” he grins. Gabe turns in his chair just to roll his eyes at him.

“As appropriate as that is, I think you’re a little too old for Halloween.” He tries to keep a straight face as Jesse slouches into an exaggerated pout, but Jesse can see the corners of his lips twitching up before he turns back to the Singer.

“It’s only fair if you’re gonna make me shepherd the runts.” Jesse chances it, drapes himself over the back of the chair with his arms hanging loosely over Gabe’s shoulders. His breath catches as Gabe absently reaches up to pat the back of one of his hands.

“Don’t call the children runts,” he says mildly.

“Well, they are!” He’s caught Gabe in a good mood, he thinks — he takes advantage of it to press their cheeks together, nuzzling gently. Gabe makes a small sound of annoyance but doesn’t push him away; Jesse can feel him smiling.

“You need to start shaving.” He pats Jesse’s scruffy jaw. “And I’m not ‘making’ you do anything. The county has allotted you community service hours as punishment for breaking Henry Nelson’s jaw and shattering his nose in three different places. You ought to be grateful that taking the Sunday schoolers trick-or-treating is the worst you have to do.”

Jesse smirks. “Nelson ought to be grateful that I made his ugly mug just a lil’ bit prettier, if you ask me.” His good humor is dashed a second later when Gabe pulls back just to narrow his eyes at him in warning. Jesse raises his hands in mock surrender, scoffs and turns away. Not in such a good mood after all, he thinks gloomily.

He shuffles over to the neat pile of finished costumes, aware of Gabe’s eyes following him. “You missed a trick being a priest ‘stead of a tailor,” he mumbles, plucking at the stitches on one of the angel costumes. Tight and neat. The fabric is also of good quality, and Jesse has to wonder if Gabe actually spent some of his own allowance on it.

Absently, he smoothes a hand over his lower back. The muscle there is tense and sore, a pleasant ache running up his spine when he presses with his fingers. Reminders of the previous day: Johnny’s birthday.

He turns about; Gabe is still staring at him. “What?” Maybe his tone is too defensive.

“Did you and O’Farrell have a good time?”

Jesse can’t help the way his cheeks flush. It _had_ been a good time. As promised, Johnny had taken him out for a ride in his newly rebuilt Corvette. They’d gone out to a remote spot in the pink rock canyons that lay on the desert horizon, the engine purring beautifully as they slowed to an idle — and then Jesse had given Johnny a ride as well. It had been a tight fit, the gear stick jamming against Jesse’s thigh as he straddled Johnny’s lap, but Johnny had given it his very best before urging Jesse out of the car to lay him across the hood.

If Jesse’s still walking funny, there’s no way that Gabe wouldn’t notice.

“Y-yeah. We took his new car out for a spin. She’s a real hot rod— goes real fast. Almost a hundred.”

“That so? I bet that was a _good_ old time.” His tone is politely pleasant, but for some reason, Gabe’s steady gaze makes Jesse lose his nerve. He fidgets, tugging at the hem of his shirt where it’s come untucked from his jeans. He wants to get angry — what _right_ does Gabe have to be upset, to be jealous, when he’s barely even laid a finger on Jesse — but then Gabe rises to his feet.

Jesse finds himself shrinking away, taking a few nervous steps back until his hip bumps against the dresser and there’s nowhere for him to go. Gabe limps forward slowly, stiffly; Jesse tenses, preparing for the inevitable blow. But Gabe doesn’t raise a hand to hit him, or to yank his hair, or to do any of the things that Jesse has come to expect of men who are bigger than him and have any sort of reason to be angry with him.

Instead, Gabe curls a finger beneath his chin, and kisses him.

Jesse melts into it, steadying himself against the dresser. Before Gabe, he had never been properly kissed in his life; even Johnny had always been too uncertain to do much more than vaguely press their lips together.

Maybe it’s Jesse’s inexperience; maybe Gabe is just talented.

He starts with soft nuzzles of the lips, little teasing brushes that coax Jesse’s mouth open and make his jaw slack, inviting the first gentle sweep of Gabe’s tongue across Jesse’s lower lip, the first light tug of teeth. Jesse offers the best reciprocation he can, mouthing clumsily and trying not to drool all over Gabe’s chin.

Only once he’d tried to emulate something he’d read in one of the blank cover books that Pa kept stashed in his bedside table — namely, sticking his tongue in Gabe’s mouth. It hadn’t lasted more than a second; Gabe had reared back so quickly that he’d almost pulled Jesse’s along tongue with him.

“Th-that sort of thing is for other occasions,” he’d coughed, clutching Jesse’s shoulders and holding him at arm’s length.

Now, Jesse sighs breathlessly as Gabe pulls back just enough to nuzzle their noses together. Sudden tenderness — Jesse hardly knows what to do with it.

“I was thinking,” Gabe murmurs, breath warm against Jesse’s cheek. “I saw a poster for that movie a couple days ago. The James Dean one.” Jesse’s brow tightens in reflexive sorrow. “ _Rebel Without a Cause_. It’s out a few days before Halloween. Thought maybe you and I could go see it. Together.”

Excitement leaves Jesse’s answering grin wobbly, cheeks flushing. He knows what that means; maybe Gabe is finally warming up after all.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Yeah, that’d be real swell.” Maybe this whole time, Gabe just wasn’t comfortable doing it in the rectory, so close to the church. Then Jesse grimaces. “We ain’t got a ride, though.”

A thrill runs up his spine as Gabe’s hand settles at the small of his back. “I know a guy,” Gabe says, voice rough. “I’ll take care of it.”

. . .

Rain falls heavily on that early evening of Halloween. It drums thunderously against the pavement, off the roofs of the houses, on the blankets of fallen leaves that coat the sidewalks. The normally serene Rio Elena has swollen, strengthened from a week’s worth of hard rain, and in some places along the riverbank, she threatens to overflow. In the distance, the sky roils angry and grey, promising a thunderstorm later in the night.

Umbrellas are distributed amongst the children to fend off the worst of it, and it makes for an eerie sight: a small horde of witches and devils and angels sweeping through the misty grey streets, large black umbrellas fluttering above their heads like vultures.

Despite the miserable weather, the children are in high spirits; not only from the promise of candy, but also from the discovery that the umbrellas could be brandished like swords and used to stab each other with wild abandon.

“Gimme that—” Jesse lunges for Davie Huggan’s umbrella just before he can jab it into Anna Stewart’s kidney. The glower that Davie aims at him is befitting of the crooked devil horns perched atop his head, his tiny hands curling into fists at his sides.

“But I’ll get _wet_ ,” he whines. As if to illustrate his point, the rain starts to come down even harder, bouncing off the brim of Jesse’s hat. “And my treats will get wet!” Davie holds up his pillowcase plaintively.

“Shoulda thought of that beforehand, pal.” Jesse sneers at him, holding the umbrella high above his head when Davie tries to jump for it, only to have it promptly snatched out of his hand by someone else. “Hey—” He spins around to come face to face with Fareeha, who is glaring daggers at him from underneath her own umbrella.

“Don’t you know how to do anything else than be a bully?” she says sharply. She turns to Davie while Jesse is still gaping at her and holds out the umbrella. “You can have this back, but only if you promise to use it properly, OK?”  
  
“I promise,” Davie says sweetly. “Thanks, Fareeha.”

Jesse growls. “An’ if I catch you doin’ that again, I’m gonna beat you till you can’t sit for a week, understand?” he snaps, jabbing a finger in Davie’s direction. Davie squeals in fear and scampers off to the front of the pack to rejoin his friends. As Jesse watches him to make sure the umbrella is opened and held up properly this time, he catches Fareeha scowling at him out of the corner of his eye. “ _What_?”

She sniffs. “Have you ever heard of diplomacy? Or are you such a brute that you need to use violence to solve all of your problems?”

Jesse sputters in indignation. “What the fu— what the heck? I’m not—” He crosses his arms over his chest instead of reflexively raising his fists, unwilling to prove her point. “Least I’m not all talk, no action,” he shoots back. “No wonder you wanna be a cop.”

She bristles like a cat. “What’s _that_ supposed to mean?” she hisses. “You think I don’t know when to take action?”

Jesse gets the feeling that the only thing that stops Fareeha from laying her claws into him is one of the children letting out a shriek behind them. He glares after her as she hurries over to see what’s the matter with runty Wallace Humphrey _this_ time; Hans Vinton’s been picking on him all evening, and Fareeha won’t even let Jesse raise a finger to do anything about it, insisting they’ll work it out on their own.

He appreciates not having to supervise eighteen children by himself, but of all the people they could’ve chosen to help out, why did it have to _her_? The entire town knows that they get on about as well as cats and dogs. And she isn’t even an adult; hell, she isn’t even out of middle school yet.

Brute. Is that really what she thinks of him?

“This would be easier one of the priests had come,” he mutters as she falls in step beside him once more. They’ve reached the next house, and they watch as the children file their way up the front steps, all orderly and obedient when faced with the parents waiting at the front door. “We’re not even on the right route anymore.”

  
“They _can’t_ come, dummy,” Fareeha says. “Father Morrison is at the Killinger’s to perform last rites, and Father Reyes’ leg is bothering him too much because of the cold weather. He’s been coming to the store for medicine. Mama said that he can barely walk some days.”

“I know that, cripes,” Jesse snaps. “I’m just saying.”

He hadn’t known Gabe’s leg was _that_ bad, though. Just a few days ago he’d seemed perfectly fine; certainly well enough to make good on his offer to take Jesse to the drive-in.

And boy, Gabe clearly had different ideas about what was meant to happen at a drive-in. It hadn’t been disappointing, exactly — alright, maybe it had been a little disappointing.

Gabe had picked him up in Lionel Walker’s truck, which reeked of dog and squealed going over each and every bump. Jesse had had worse places, though; what was important was the wide bench seat and the grimy windows.

They’d parked in the back of the dusty lot just as the projector flickered to life. Jesse was practically trembling in anticipation, scooting in close to plaster himself against Gabe’s side. Gabe slung his arm over Jesse’s shoulder, tilting their heads together; the way he went still when Jesse leaned in to press his mouth to the side of his neck should have tipped Jesse off.

“Jesse,” he said stiffly as Jesse settled a hand on his good knee. “We’re here to watch the movie.”

“Yeah,” Jesse murmured, brushing his lips against the stubbly underside of Gabe’s jaw. “So we’ll watch the movie—” He yelped as Gabe seized his wrist, dragging his hand away from where it had been slipping up the inside of Gabe’s thigh.

“Jesse,” he repeated, biting. “ _No_.”

Jesse tried not to let the shock show on his face. No one had ever not wanted this from him. And yet Gabe seemed content to just sit quietly side by side and just watch the movie, their hands vaguely clasped around one another.

It wasn’t what Jesse wanted, but it was...nice. Gabe was solid and warm against him, his occasional rumbling chuckles punctuated by a puff of hot breath against Jesse’s temple. He even let Jesse wipe his wet eyes against his collar during the more emotional scenes; when the movie was over, he held Jesse close as he sniffled into his chest.

“That. That was real good,” Jesse croaked. “He did a real— real good job—”

“Oh, Jess,” Gabe murmured as Jesse broke into a fresh wave of tears, petting his hair and gentling shushing him, doing his best to soothe a still-healing wound.

Jesse supposes it’s for the best that they actually watched the movie that night; he certainly didn’t have the opportunity to do so when he returned with Johnny the following night, too busy trying to arrange their bodies in the cramped interior of the Corvette to pay much attention to the screen.

Fareeha calls out over the children’s heads, jolting Jesse out of his own head. “Everyone, we need to turn right!” Jesse watches sullenly as the children immediately shuffle into some semblance of a line and obediently round the corner.

“How come they listen to you and not me,” he mutters. Fareeha raises her eyebrows at him..

“Because you’re a jerk,” she says, very matter-of-factly, before pushing past him to go stand at the front of the line. Jesse glares after her.

“Am not,” he grunts, wiping at his cold nose. Irritated, he pats at his jacket in search of his pack of cigarettes, only to remember that he smoked the last one hours ago.

Fortunately the rain eases up into a fine mist by the time they near the end of their route, leaving in its wake the scent of wet leaves and clean earth. Off on the western horizon, the sunset stains the broken rain clouds purple and orange; to the south-east, a gloomier storm brews.

“Only a few more houses, everyone!” Fareeha announces. The children let out a cheer; everyone is cold and damp and ready to go home to delve into their full bags of treats. Jesse certainly knows he’s looking forward to sitting in front of the fireplace for an hour or two; maybe he’ll be able to convince Gabe to brew him some hot cocoa.

“Hey bean!” He immediately perks up as they reach the Thompson’s front drive. Mr. Thompson and his wife are sitting on their front porch in spite of the chilly weather, swaddled in heavy quilts and rocking back and forth in wicker chairs. Mr. Thompson smiles widely at him, raising a steaming mug in greeting.

“Hiya, Mister and Missus Thompson,” Jesse grins back, lifting his hat as he hops up the front steps, leaving shepherding the kids to Fareeha. He spots an overflowing bowl of treats sitting on the table beside Mrs. Thompson’s chair — popcorn balls and broken up Charleston Chews. “Boy, these kids’ll love you.”

“They’re free to take it all.” Mrs. Thompson chuckles as she plucks up the bowl and sets in her lap. “Jeb and I are just about crazy with sugar at this point. Well, hello, there,” she coos as the first girl climbs the steps, her bag clutched shyly to her chest. “And would you like a trick, or a treat?”

As the children line up, Mr. Thompson beckons Jesse to the side, reaching out to take one of his hands in both of his. “And how are you, my boy? The kids treating you alright?”

Jesse shrugs. “Just alright. Coulda done without the rain, though.”

“I can feel that! Your hands are freezing, boy.” Mr. Thompson laughs softly, patting the back of Jesse’s hand before releasing it. “Think of it this way — it’ll keep you in business! That grass is going to grow an inch a day at this rate.”

Near the start of October, Mr. Thompson had been kind enough to offer Jesse a way to earn some pocket money cutting his lawn each week — “Never seem to have time to do it myself,” he’d said — and Mrs. Thompson had offered even more if he’d also be a dear and tend to the flowerbeds. Then their next-door neighbor had seen him working and, after asking after his rate, had hired him on the spot to trim her overgrown hedges and see to the grass as well.

As a result, Jesse was sitting pretty on almost ten dollars: more money than he’d ever had at one time in any given point in his life, and with Christmas fast approaching, he’s saving as much of it as he can.

“Anyway—” Mr. Thompson clears his throat, taking a sip of his drink. “I hope you’ve been well? And is Father Reyes doing alright? Maria and I are a bit worried, we didn’t see him on Sunday.”

Jesse nods. “Yeah, he’s doing fine. It’s just, ah, his leg.” He’s not sure Gabe would appreciate him spreading information like that, but he knows the Thompsons aren’t the sort to gossip. “With the winter weather and all, you know.”

“Oh, dear.” Mr. Thompson grimaces in sympathy. “Well, you let him know that we say hello, won’t you? And we hope he feels better soon.”

Not for the first time, it strikes Jesse that the Thompsons are perhaps the most good-hearted people that he has ever met, and yet it seems as if they are only ever spoken ill of in this rotten little town. His jaw sets in a sudden spark of anger; all he can do is grin helplessly and tip his hat in acknowledgement.

He falls into a contemplative silence as they finish up their route and begin the process of walking all the kids to their respective houses. A bracing wind begins to pick up as the thunderstorm steadily rolls closer, stirring at the fallen leaves and biting at his flesh.

There are only four children left to lead home by the time they cross the bridge to the south side of town. Out of habit, he glances down through the wooden slats; the river is startlingly close, rushing dark and fierce just a few feet beneath the bridge.

A loud wail snaps him out of his thoughts. “Give it back!” Wallace Humphrey and Hans Vinton are back at it; Hans has gotten ahold of Wallace’s sweet-filled pillowcase and is holding it high above his head. The goose-feather angel wings on Wallace’s back quiver as he tries to jump for it. “Hans, stop it! That’s mine!”

“Oh yeah?” Hans sneers at him. “Looks like it’s mine now, pipsqueak.”

It’s started to rain again. Thunder rumbles in the gloomy twilight sky, a malevolent dragon awakening from its slumber.

Fareeha steps in. “That’s enough, you two! Hans, give Wallace back his bag.”

For a moment, Hans just glares at her. Then he rolls his eyes, sighing theatrically. “Fine.” He tosses the pillowcase back into Wallace’s arms, who stumbles back in surprise.

Then, Hans shoves him.

Later, Jesse will look back and wonder if he meant to push so hard, or if he had accounted for how little Wallace weighed. He doubts it — in his experience, bullies rarely consider the consequences of their actions.

Eyes and mouth wide open in shock, Wallace hugs the pillowcase close to his chest as he goes careening backwards — and falls right through center gap in the bridge railing, disappearing over the edge in an instant.

Jesse doesn’t get a chance think. His body reacts on its own without so much as a by-your leave: Fareeha stands frozen in the middle of the bridge, and Jesse takes a running leap and throws himself over the railing, hat flying off as he plunges headfirst into the roaring black current.

Cold surges through his system like electricity the second he hits the water. Only then does it vaguely occur to him what a stupid thing he has just done, jumping fully-clothed into a deep, rain-violent river without so much as kicking off his boots. He sinks like a stone into the icy torrent; pain lights up his side as he slams against a rock, inhaling a mouthful of water before he’s swept downriver.

He strains upwards. For a split second, his hands make purchase on something solid, and he frantically scrabbles against it, doing his best to brace himself and pull _up_. He gasps wetly as he breaks the surface, and in that exact moment a brilliant fork of lightning illuminates the swirling clouds, burning into his eyes. Shouting in the distance — Jesse barely hears it as the heavens split open and unleash a deafening clap of thunder.

The thing he’s managed to cling to: a large tree branch half submerged in the water, slick with moss and groaning dangerously in the fearsome current. His muscles scream as he heaves himself up onto it, shuddering in the vicious cold. He manages to cling tightly with one arm as he reaches down to wrench off his boots with the other, whining through his teeth as pain sears up from his ankles.

“Wallace!” he screams. He swings his head around wildly as he starts to yank off his water-logged jeans, eyes wide and nostrils flaring as he strains his eyes into the raging night. “Goddammit—” Lightning crashes, and in the brief flash of light he sees it: twenty, thirty feet downriver, a head of shaggy dark hair breaches the surface for just a moment before being dragged back under.

Jesse doesn’t hesitate. He throws himself back into the water.

The current grips him like God’s own hand, raw, crushing power squeezing the breath out of him as he’s dragged along like a rag doll. Too numb to feel his limbs, he still somehow manages to kick off his jeans where they’re clinging to his ankles, and a second later his jacket follows suit. Lungs burning with exhaustion, but his body freed from the leaden weight of his sodden clothes, Jesse lunges into a sloppy, uncoordinated breastroke that does little more than streamline the river’s mercy.

He’s rapidly growing fatigued; what’s worse, Wallace is nowhere to be seen.

Fear grips Jesse’s heart like an icy vise. Out of desperation, he plunges his head beneath the surface, eyes stinging, but there’s nothing to be seen in the pitch black miasma.

Nausea courses through him. He rears back out of the water, and screams with the last of his breath: “Wallace!”

Something slams into his stomach, winding him. Jesse grabs for it out of instinct, only to let out a sob of pure relief when he wraps his arms around a small, writhing body.

“I got you— I got you—”

Wallace thrashes sluggishly as Jesse struggles to orient himself in the water. “Hold onto me, OK? I got you—”

Wallace spits up water as he clings to Jesse’s waist, fingernails digging into Jesse’s flesh as he frantically tries to crawl up out of the water. His arms wrap around Jesse’s throat and tighten into a deathgrip — Jesse wheezes as his air is cut off until he yanks at one of Wallace’s wrists.

We’re in trouble, Jesse thinks hazily as Wallace clutches at his shoulders instead. He could barely keep himself afloat on his own — with Wallace’s added weight, he’s quickly losing stamina, legs kicking weakly, uselessly as the furious river drags them along.

Agony wrenches a scream from his lips as his hip strokes a rock with a force that rattles his teeth in his skull. His arms shoot out to clutch at it, claw at it; with the last reserves of his strength, he braces his feet against the slippery round of it and kicks off as hard as he can.

They cut several feet towards the south bank, and Jesse sucks in a ragged breath as his feet dig into sucking, loamy sand.

He can touch the bottom.

His lungs are on fire; his legs may as well be cast from lead as he slowly, painfully drags them towards the shore, body protesting his every movement.

The water relinquishes its grasp all at once. Jesse’s knees buckle. He hears a squeak as he crumples forward onto the shore, sending Wallace toppling from his back. He gasps into the sand, coughing up water; he can’t move anymore.

It’s still pouring, raindrops drumming against his back almost comfortingly. Thunder rumbles overhead; Jesse thinks it sounds pleased.

“Jesse?” Small hands push at his shoulders. “Jesse? Are—” Wallace’s shrill voice breaks off into wet, ragged coughing.

Jesse’s chest spasms in sympathy, water welling up in his throat. “You...OK.”

“Y-yeah, I—”

“That’s good.” Jesse goes limp for a moment. Then turns his head to one side and promptly empties his stomach all over the sand, bile stinging at his nose. Dark spots bloom across his vision.

“Jesse?!”

“Wallace? Jesse? Boys?”

Fareeha?

“There they are! South bank, on the bend.”

“...send someone down…”

Jesse lets his eyes slip closed.

. . .

Gabe startles out of his doze with a snort, and he forgets, just for a brief moment, where he is. The coals smoldering on the hearth peer up at him like glowing red eyes. His fingers curl against his sternum where his heart is pounding in his chest.

A loud knocking at the door snaps him out of it, and his shoulders drop: that must have been what awoke him in the first place. He doesn’t remember falling asleep; somewhere between brewing a pot of tea and waiting up in the living room for Jesse to come home, the soothing sounds of the thunderstorm had lulled him into slumber.

All’s quiet now. The storm must have passed. Gabe glances at the clock and is immediately struck by a spike of anxiety when he sees that it’s almost midnight. Jesse should have been home _hours_ ago.

“One moment,” he calls out as the knocking continues. He pushes himself up from the couch only to have his leg immediately give out beneath him, a fearsome ache biting at his knee like ice. An annoyed hiss whistles through his teeth as he catches himself on the arm of the couch; he’s never needed his cane to walk fifteen fucking feet before.

“And I’m not going to now,” he growls, gripping his knee with both hands and forcing it to cooperate despite the pain that ripples up and down his leg as he puts weight on it. It’s just stiff, he tells himself, it’s just been a few hours since he took his last few tablets of aspirin. That’s all it is.

His leg quakes as he limps to the entryway, bracing himself against the wall as he fumbles with the door. It swings open to reveal none other than Sheriff Rosenthal standing on the front step, clasping his hat against his chest and looking appropriately apologetic.

Apprehension steals the breath from Gabe’s chest. Not again.

“Sheriff?” he rasps, clearing his throat.

“Father.” Rosenthal grimaces. “Apologies for wakin’ you at this hour, I know—”

Between the pain gripping his leg and the worry roiling in his belly, Gabe suddenly doesn’t have the patience for pleasantries. “What’s he done this time?” he interrupts, voice rough.

Rosenthal blinks. Then raises his hands, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. “Oh, it’s— it’s not like that, not at all. Jesse’s not in any trouble, he—” He glances over his shoulder. “Look, here he comes now.”

Gabe’s brow knits together in confusion, then concern as he looks past Rosenthal.

Even a distance, he can see how violently Jesse trembles as he shuffles up the front path of the rectory. He’s swaddled in a large white towel, his hat conspicuously missing from its usual place on his head, hair damp and sticking up at odd angles. He’s also barefoot. Another police officer is walking in step beside him, resting a steadying hand on his shoulder.

“One of the children fell into the river,” Rosenthal says softly. Gabe’s heart skips a beat as he recalls how high the river has become after three weeks of heavy rain. “The Humphrey boy. Jesse dove in after him.”

Gabe puts a hand over his mouth as Jesse wobbles up the front steps. Beneath the porchlight, his skin is almost grey, like death warmed over. He lifts his head to shoot Gabe a shaky grin. “Hey,” he croaks.

“Jesse McCree,” Gabe grits out, steadying himself against the doorframe. “Of all the fool things to do—”

Jesse’s grin slides off his face, and Rosenthal hastily interjects, hands raised placatingly.

“Now, don’t be cross with the young man.” Rosenthal gently pats Jesse on the back. “The way I see it, he ought to be commended. With the river the way it is, well— if he hadn’t gone after Wallace.” He lowers his voice. “The boy probably would have died.”

Jesse peers up at Gabe; big, simpering puppy-dog eyes if Gabe ever saw them. Gabe crosses his arms, scowling darkly. Then he sighs and tips his head back.

“Alright,” he says after a moment, stepping aside to let Jesse shuffle through the door. His bare feet squeak against the tiles. “What about the rest of the children? They’re alright?”

Rosenthal nods. “Everyone’s home safe and sound. We’ve just had Jesse at the station for a few hours while he regained consciousness.” Gabe nostrils flare briefly. At his side, Jesse peering down at his feet as though they hold the secrets to the universe. The sheriff continues on, oblivious. “I’d say what he needs right now is a hot meal and some heavy blankets. That river’s deathly cold right now.”

Gabe drags a hand over his face, eyes slipping closed for a moment. “Thank you, Sheriff.” He puts a hand on Jesse’s shoulder, softening his grip when he feels Jesse tense and quiver beneath it. “I’ll take it from here.”

Rosenthal seems to hesitate for a moment, glancing back and forth between the two of them, before he nods again and places his hat on his head. “Sure. Anytime, Father. Y’all have a good night, now.”

Silence hangs heavy in the air for a few moments after the door shuts. Then, without warning, Gabe grabs ahold of Jesse’s arm and tugs him into a tight hug, burying his face in his river-damp hair and inhaling deeply. “You idiot,” he mumbles, voice muffled. “You goddamned idiot.” Jesse shudders and goes limp against him, nuzzling his cold nose into the underside of Gabe’s jaw. “You scared the hell out of me, Jesse, you gotta stop doing that—”

“I’m sorry, Gabe—” Jesse’s breath stutters against Gabe’s throat, hot despite the deathly clamminess of his skin.

“Shut up.” Gabe’s lips brush the tip of Jesse’s ear as he clutches him closer still.

Gabe can’t be certain how long they stand like that, rocking back and forth in the hallway. He doesn’t let go until the pain in his knee becomes too much to bear and he’s finally forced to pull away, back thumping against the wall. Jesse peeps shyly up at him through his shaggy hair.

It’s only then that Gabe notices that, beneath the towel, Jesse’s wearing nothing but a sodden undershirt and a damp pair of briefs. No wonder he’s still shivering. “Let’s get you warmed up, OK?”

Jesse shivers by the couch, watching as Gabe lays a few logs on the hearth and painfully stoops down to stoke the embers back into a roaring fire. He squeaks when Gabe slips a finger beneath the waistband of his wet underwear and snaps it against his skin. “These off. I’ll fetch you some dry clothes.”

Though Gabe knows he’s anything but innocent, Jesse still blushes as he slowly peels the underwear down his long legs. The undershirt quickly follows suit, dropping to the floor in a heap. Gabe tries to keep his gaze fixed firmly above shoulder-level as he nudges Jesse to settle down on the towel in front of the fire, his bony knees hugged tightly to his chest.

Gabe keeps one hand braced against the wall to steady himself as he ducks into the dim hallway, icy pain gnawing away at his knee as he limps towards his room. His skin prickles; even in the darkness he can feel the apostles watching him from their cheap portraits on the wall, their eyes boring into his very flesh.

“I didn’t look,” he rasps. “Stop it.”

The apostles say nothing.

“I’m trying my best,” he adds.

Nothing.

He hurries along to his room.

“Everything I have will be a bit too big for you,” he says a few minutes later when he ducks back into the living room, a set of clean clothes draped over one arm. “We’re about the same height, but you’re a good sight skinnier than I am. I know you don’t want to, but I think you ought to stop by your father’s place to pick up a few of your own clothes— Jesse?”

The towel lays rumbled and abandoned in front of the fireplace. Gabe finds himself staring Jesse’s bare ass for a solid ten seconds before he can drag his gaze upwards and realize what’s caught Jesse’s attention: the little side-table that Gabe had borrowed from the spare guest room, covered by a brightly colored cloth that he’d bought from Ana’s.

“What’s this?” Jesse asks quietly, brushing his fingers against one of the dried marigolds that rests atop it.

“ _Altar de muertos_ ,” Gabe murmurs as he offers Jesse a pair of pajama pants. They sit very low on his skinny hips. “Por Día de Muertos.”

His makeshift _ofrenda_ isn’t much to look at, scattered with dried flowers and colorful wrapped candies. A tall, thin candle sits to either side like a pair of bookends. In the center of the altar, propped up against a small tin of powdery cookies, is only one of the photographs that Gabe requested his mother send him: a first grade portrait of his baby brother David, who had died of scarlet fever a few days before his seventh birthday. Gabe had been ten years old at the time.

“Today is Children’s Day,” he says slowly. “Usually the altar would be set up by children, but.” He shrugs. “It didn’t seem right to skip him.”

“Oh.” Jesse ducks his head forward to take a closer look at the photograph. Like this, his torso bare, Gabe can see just how long his hair is getting, curling around his shoulders and down the first few knobs of his spine. “My mama used to do something like this,” he goes on, voice quiet. “She’d even get Pa to do it. She used to talk about goin’ back to Mexico one day, visit the graveyard where her parents were buried.” He turns his head slightly, and Gabe can see his Adam’s apple bob in his throat. “We never did go.”

Gabe presses his lips together in sympathy. “Maybe someday you will. The third day — it’s beautiful.” That was understatement — Gabe had never seen anything quite like the Día de Muertos celebrations in Los Angeles, the normally somber cemeteries brought to life by candlelight and song and the families of the dead.

“She never told me what village she came from,” Jesse croaks. Gabe blinks out of his memories; Jesse’s shoulders are shaking.

“Oh,” he says, helplessly. “Jesse—”

“It’s nothin’,” Jesse sniffles, letting out a watery chuckle. He wipes clumsily at his nose, his eyes. “Think I— think I just got tired all at once, you know?” His legs tremble beneath him.

Gabe’s expression softens. “Head on up to bed,” he murmurs. “I’ll put on some soup—”

“No!” Jesse blurts. “No.” He hesitates, hugging his arms to his chest. Despite how much food he packs away on a daily basis, Gabe can still see almost every one of his ribs. “Can we just sit for a little while?”

The throbbing in Gabe’s knee answers for him. Wordlessly, he settles down on the couch, lifting his arm in open invitation. Jesse takes it immediately, burrowing against his side, snuffling as he buries his face in the crook of Gabe’s neck and shoulder.

His breath slows; after only a few minutes, Gabe thinks he’s fallen asleep.

Then he speaks, voice little more than a whisper. “I lost it,” he mumbles, rubbing his cheek against Gabe’s shoulder. “I lost her hat. It fell off when I jumped into the river.” He sniffs. “I was supposed to keep it safe for her.”

Gabe isn’t sure what to say in the face of that. So he keeps quiet, smoothing his hand up and down Jesse’s side in an attempt to be comforting.

He supposes it works, because it isn’t long before Jesse drifts off for good this time, breathing gently against Gabe’s neck. He’s comfortable deadweight, pressing Gabe into the couch, keeping him grounded against the pain that threatens to overwhelm him.

After a time, Gabe finds his eyes starting to droop shut as he stares into the slowly dying fire, his head gently listing to one side. He’ll let himself doze for just a little while, he decides. Just a couple of minutes. Then he’ll rouse Jesse and usher him to bed, maybe even cook him a light dinner before he sleeps.

Right now, he just needs to rest his eyes.

. . .

Jack doesn’t return to the rectory until the early hours of the morning, his coat soaked through by rain and his heart heavy from the passing of one of Dry Creek’s oldest residents. Wrought from the final throes of senility, Jacqueline Killinger’s death hadn’t been swift or easy, but Jack had done his best to make sure that she went with God.

Embers still burn low on the hearth, casting the living room in their faint red glow. Jack moves forward with the intention of burying them in ash, only to stiffen in surprise when he suddenly notices the two dark shapes lumped together on the couch.

In the dim light, he can just make out their features. Gabriel has his head tipped back over the edge of the couch, soft snores buzzing from his open mouth; Jesse, bare-chested, is nestled against his side, one arm flung over his waist.

Despite the sharp pang in his chest, Jack feels a smile tug up at the corners of his lips. “I sure hope you know what you’re doing, Gabe,” he says under his breath before padding into the hallway as quietly as he can. He returns a monent later with a blanket from the communal closet and gently drapes it over the two of them; Jesse snuffles and sighs, mouth moving vaguely against Gabe’s neck.

Jack watches their peaceful slumber for just a few moments more. Then he sighs heavily through his nose, shoulders drooping, before he turns and shuffles off into the darkness, seeking the embrace of his own empty bed.

. . .

It’s an early, frosty morning when Jesse makes his return to the farmhouse.

He doesn’t particularly want to, but the river had swallowed his last pair of jeans, and he doubts Gabe will appreciate Jesse borrowing his clothes forever. It’ll be fine, he tells himself, shivering from the cold as he climbs the creaky front steps. Pa would be on his way to work by now, or he would’ve stayed overnight in Albuquerque anyway. The house would be empty.

He tells himself that, but it doesn’t make pulling open the front door any easier. It swings open with the squeal of rusty hinges, and he hovers nervously on the threshold for a moment or two before he can force himself forward. A frisson of fear runs up his spine as he peers around the corner into the kitchen, just to make sure it really is empty. He can still freshly recall the feeling of knuckles slamming into his cheek, the sound his head had made as it cracked against the corner of the butcher block.

No signs of life here. The tension slowly eases as out of his shoulders but never completely leaves as he picks his way through the dark, empty house. It feels distinctly unlived in, the usual piles of newspapers and garbage and empty beer bottles conspicuously absent. Pa must be going through one of his dry spells.

Jesse hums along to the radio as he climbs the stairs, the wood groaning in complaint beneath his feet. He holds his breath as he pushes open the door to his room, only to let it whistle out through his teeth all at once.

His room has been left completely untouched, exactly as messy as he last left it. Flicking on the light reveals that everything is also coated in a fine layer of dust, from the model planes on his dresser to the posters on his wall.

He swallows hard as he takes a few hesitant steps inside. From the _East of Eden_ poster pinned over his bed, James Dean casts his impassive out over the room. After a moment, Jesse sets one knee on the bed, reaching for the poster — Gabe wouldn’t mind if he wanted to hang it up in the spare bedroom, right? — but something stills his hand.

Dean looks oddly frozen, gaze shuttered and blank.

Jesse sighs, wilting slightly as he turns away. He supposes it’s not a very good poster anyway; maybe he can swipe one of the _Rebel Without A Cause_ advertisements before it goes out of theaters.

He grabs his old school bag from where it’s slung over one of the posts of his bed and sets to the task of gathering up his clothes. He plucks them from the floor at random, stuffing them haphazardly into the bag. Everything will fit anyway; it's not as if he owns much.

After a moment’s hesitation, he also carefully takes his favorite model plane from his dresser: an American P-51 Mustang, painted hot-rod red by a child’s clumsy hand. Another reminder of things that he can never have — but certainly a much less painful one.

When he’s finished, he slings the bag over his shoulder and quietly closes the door behind him. The radio is still playing as he makes his way down the stairs, taking them two at a time.

“Some people say a man is made outta mud — a poor man's made outta muscle and blood—”

Jesse goes rigid on the last step, foot freezing in midair. A realization: Pa never leaves the radio on when he’s not home.

In the living room, the floorboards creak. Jesse watches in mute terror as the beast rises from where he’d been slumbering on the couch, hidden from view.

“You load sixteen tons, what do you get? Another day older and deeper in debt—”

Jesse gulps loudly, heart jackrabbiting in his chest. Stupid, stupid, _stupid_. Why didn’t he notice sooner?

“P-pa.”

Pa stares hollowly at him, swaying in place where he’s risen. His eyes are bloodshot and sunken, face gaunt — but somehow, Jesse doesn’t think he’s drunk. “Boy,” he rasps.

He takes a step forward.

“—Saint Peter, don't you call me 'cause I can't go: I owe my soul to the company store!”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm real sorry for the long delay! i was out of the country for a month, and then i had a bout of writer's block. chapters should be updated more regularly from now on. 
> 
> as always, thanks to maren for brainstorming help!


	7. The First Snow

 

Hot, wet heat.

Jesse’s never felt anything quite like it before. His lips part in a low moan; his head thumping back against the wall as his hips arch in unbridled pleasure – only to stutter and freeze when he’s met with panicked gagging and hands smacking at his thighs.

“Christ,” Johnny rasps as soon as Jesse pulls back, clutching at his throat. “Go easy on a guy, will ya?”

“Sorry.” Jesse pushes his fingers through Johnny’s hair, rubbing soothingly at his scalp as his shoulders heave in a fit of coughing. “It’s just– _really_ good.”

“You’re pretty big.” Johnny sounds almost embarrassed. It’s _darling_. “And it ain’t like I do this a lot. Not like you do.”

But the way he takes the head of Jesse’s cock back into his mouth, tongue pushing slowly at the soft folds of his foreskin, peeling it back to reveal where he’s most sensitive – if he didn’t know any better, it might make Jesse think otherwise. Even the slight scrape of teeth only serve to heighten the sensation: a frisson of sharp pleasure that makes Jesse shiver and sigh.

It’s certainly is a welcome distraction from the grim mood that’s been hanging over his head like a shroud for the last few days. He hadn’t come to Johnny seeking diversion – indeed, he’d only meant to bring Johnny lunch while he worked on one of the Junkers’ latest projects, dropping in unannounced with a sandwich from Ana’s tucked under his arm.

It was _Johnny_ who had greeted him with glinting eyes and lingering touches, tugging him out the back door of the garage and urging him back against the wall of the toolshed.

Surprising – even shocking – but definitely not unwelcome.

Maybe, maybe, Jesse thinks as he gently eases himself a little farther into Johnny’s mouth, cupping the back of his head. And Johnny takes it willingly, even as his throat spasms at the slightest nudge.

Maybe–

(What would Gabe think?)

It’s over fairly quickly, but Johnny doesn’t seem to mind. He wrinkles his nose as he uses the back of his hand to wipe the worst of the mess away from his lips and chin. After a moment’s hesitation, his tongue darts out to taste. Jesse grins; the face Johnny makes is hilarious. “You _swallow_ this?” he grimaces.

He stops complaining pretty quick when Jesse leans in to clean the rest off with his mouth – slow and methodical.

“I– I gotta get back to work,” Johnny pants when their lips finally part with a wet noise, catching Jesse’s wrist where his hand is trying to wriggle its way down the front of his jeans. “I just. You seem off, this last week. Thought I could do somethin’ nice.”

Jesse forces a wobbly grin; the high of his orgasm quickly drains away. “Well, I– that’s awful sweet of you.”

Johnny does not smile. He furrows his brow at Jesse, lips pouting out into a concerned moue.

“I’m just, ah. Still bummed about losin’ my hat, y’know?” Jesse clears his throat as he tucks himself away. “You know how much it meant to me. It bein’ Ma’s and all.”

Johnny tilts his head slightly, skeptical, but he doesn’t pry further, seemingly glad to be given an out. He reaches out to briefly grip Jesse’s shoulder.

“Well, if that’s all. You know I’m your best bud, right? I gotcha.”

But emotions have never been Johnny’s strong suit, Jesse thinks moodily as he walks down the main road back towards the church’. A bitter wind sweeps down the street, kicking up the last remnants of fallen leaves and biting through his clothes. He shoves his hands deep into his jacket pockets.

And it’s just as well: there’s no way he’s going to tell Johnny about Pa. He hasn’t even told Gabe.

He can still remember it vividly: the dull gleam in Pa’s bloodshot eyes, the way his shoulders had heaved with each wheezing, laborious breath. The sallow grey of his skin, stretched tightly across his frame like he hadn’t had a drop of water in days; the stench of filth and bile that had hung about him like a noxious fog as he approached, one trembling hand outstretched.

Jesse had closed his eyes and braced himself for agony, hands clenched tightly at his side.

And then his knees nearly had nearly given out in shock as Pa seized him by the wrist and tugged him forward — into his arms.

“God damn it, Jess,” he’d choked out. Hot, sour breath puffed across Jesse’s cheek as Pa buried his face in Jesse’s tangled hair, one large hand cradling the back of his head — over the very same spot where his skull had collided with the butcher block. “God _damn_ it.”

Jesse could only stand in stunned silence while Pa clutched him tightly to his chest, breath whistling through his nose and puffing through Jesse’s hair.

He couldn’t say how long they stood there for, Pa rocking the pair of them back and forth, as Tennessee's Ernie Ford gave way to the droning radio announcer. Finally, Pa pulled back just a little, just enough to take Jesse’s face between his rough hands and tilt his head back. Jesse had to resist the instinctual urge to tug away, panic twisting in his gut as Pa peered down at him through rheumy eyes.

“My boy,” Pa rasped; his voice was a harsh, broken thing. With mounting horror, Jesse watched as fat tears rolled down his cheeks, tracking through the grime on his skin.

The only time his father cried was when he was very drunk — and very angry.

“Pa.” Jesse’s breath came in quick, short bursts. “I didn’t— I just—”

“Wait.” Pa spoke over him, pushing him out to arm’s length. “Wait, don’t say a damn thing. I got to— I need to do this right.” He sniffled loudly, vigorously wiping his tears on his shirtsleeve, then tugged Jesse over to the couch. Jesse’s legs all but gave out from beneath him as Pa pushed him down onto the couch, then knelt down before him.

“Jesse.” Pa scrubbed a hand over his uneven grey stubble. He didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands; they fluttered here and there, twitchy, until he finally took one of Jesse’s hands in both of his.

Like this, Jesse could feel the minute tremor visibly running through Pa’s entire body.

For a moment, they both seem to wait with bated breath. Then—

“I quit drinkin’, Jess.” Pa lifted his chin, nervously wetting his lips. “I already been off it for a week now.”

Jesse swore he felt his heart stutter in his chest. He said nothing — how could he?

He had no way of knowing what his expression held, but Pa seemed to shrink a little, leaning back on his heels. “I, uh. I know I ain’t been so good to you for a long time.” He cleared his throat. “I— Hell. I been hell on you, and that’s the truth.” As if Jesse didn’t already know.

He said nothing.

“And, uh. Uh.” Jesse fixated on the tic in Pa’s left eyelid, watching as it flickered and jumped. “It ain’t right, uh— You’re my kid, Jess.” Pa’s voice went thick; Jesse could hear him swallow. “My boy. And I think if you could find it in you to forgive me.” A strange little chuckle. “Well, hell. We can move past it all. We can make it all better.”

Jesse said nothing.

Pa’s hands tightened around his. “Things’ll be different. You’ll see.”

And still, Jesse said nothing. How could he? In that moment, there was nothing in Hell or on Earth that could possibly sum up the seething, burning emotion that was coiling in his chest like a snake, poised to strike.

He could pinpoint the exact moment that Pa’s face began to crumble. His eyes darkened, his lips pressing into a thin line. A muscle in his jaw ticked. “Well, boy?” Voice strained — he couldn’t quite hide that growl. “You goin’ to answer me?”

Jesse’s mouth was dry when he finally worked up the courage to answer. “OK, Pop,” he whispered, keeping his head bowed. “Whatever you say.” Then: “I— I gotta go now.” He clutched his bag to his chest like a shield as he rose. “I’m s’posed to help with breakfast at the church.”

“Wait. Now, hold on, Jess—”

Jesse’s ears were buzzing as he somehow tugged himself from Pa’s grasp and away from the couch, gaze ever trained on the ground. “I’ll see you around. Pa.”

Somehow he’d gotten away. He still thanks his lucky stars that Pa hadn’t followed after him as he fled down the hallway and out the front door; he hadn’t stopped running until he reached the church.

He hasn’t been back to the farmhouse since.

Gabe is sitting out in the garden when Jesse gets back. He’s bundled up in a thick winter coat and watching absently as Father Morrison putters about in the dirt, checking on the young kale plants and uprooting any stray weeds that might have survived the increasingly cold nights.

“How’s Johnny?” Gabe asks, unprompted, once Jesse has settled down on the doorstep beside him, wrapping his arms around his knees and drawing them up to his chest.

“Huh? Oh, he’s fine.” Maybe Gabe can hear the slow uncertainty in Jesse’s voice, because he glances over at him, brow furrowed.

“What’s the matter?”

Jesse hesitates, lowering his head to rest his chin on his knees. He watches Morrison warily; fortunately, he doesn’t seem to be paying Gabe or Jesse any mind, too focused on his plants. Still, he keeps his voice low. “I got a question.”

Gabe tilts his head to one side; he’s listening.

“Say. . . Say someone you know’s done you real bad, and for a long time. And after all of it, they turn around and ask you to forgive ‘em. Just like that. And they seem real earnest about it, but you don’t know if you can do it.” His voice cracks. “You don’t think you can forgive ‘em. What do you do?”

Gabe is silent for nearly a minute; when Jesse looks up, he’s frowning off into space, lips pressed into a thin line.

“Do you want the Bible’s answer, or mine?” he says finally.

Jesse answers, quite truthfully: “Bible’s never helped me much.”

Another brief silence. Then, voice soft— “Forgiveness is an object, Jesse. It belongs to you, and it’s yours to give. If you have to force it, conjure it up out of nothing.” Gabe makes a vague motion with his hand. “It’s not real, is it?”

Jesse thinks of the hope in his father’s weary, lined face. The earnest tremble in his father’s broken voice.

He thinks of the spittle flying from his father’s mouth as he roared his drunken fury; he thinks of the vicious bite of his father’s knuckles as they slammed into the side of his face.

It’s not real, is it.

Jesse pushes himself to his feet, wobbling slightly as he stoops down to wrap his arms around Gabe’s shoulders. He sniffles and presses his face into the side of Gabe’s neck; a large warm hand settles on his hip, rubbing soothingly up and down his side.

He says nothing — how could he?

Gabe doesn’t ask any questions.

Among the kale, Jack keeps his gaze planted firmly on the ground.

. . .

Gabe lifts the lid off a box of Christmas prayer books he’d dragged up from the basement only to stumble back, coughing, as a cloud of dust and mildew billows into his face. He wrinkles his nose, flapping his hand to try and clear away the most of it before he peers down into the box. It’s no small wonder Jack had suggested they just order new ones — many of them are moldy and curling at the edges, the paper yellow and damp. “Must be a leak somewhere down there,” he mutters to himself, clearing his throat.

He goes rigid as a blood-curdling shrinks rings down the corridor from the rectory. In the next moment the entire box of books goes crashing to the floor when he spins around and takes off into a sprint down the hallway — clutching at his knee the entire way, a fine sweat prickling at his skin as hot pain shoots up his spine with every step.

“What happened?” he demands breathlessly as he bursts through the door — only to draw up short, mouth falling open.

Jesse is cowering in one corner of the living room, one hand raised to shield his face and the other covering his groin. And for good reason — he’s dressed in naught but a ratty pair of briefs, in stark contrast to the woman dressed in full nun’s habit and currently brandishing a broom at him. He makes pleading eyes at Gabe the moment he enters the room, though he doesn’t dare move — Gabe can see several large red marks about his ribcage from where the broom had already struck him.

“What on Earth,” he starts At the same time, Jack bursts in through the kitchen door, wild-eyed and brandishing a muddy gardening spade.

“Angela? What’s wrong, what happened?” he pants as he hurries into the living room — leaving a trail of muddy boot prints in his wake.

“He came in through the front door.” The woman’s hands are perfectly steady as she backs Jesse further up against the wall. “I can call the police, if one of you gentleman will restrain him.”

Gabe can’t help it — he bursts out laughing. He almost loses his balance and has to reach out to steady himself on the doorframe as he doubles over in gasping, teary-eyed laughter.

“I was just goin’ out to get the paper!” Jesse squeaks, gesturing frantically to where it’s been discarded at his feet. “I didn’t know she was here yet!”

Jack groans, stumbling back a few steps. He drags a hand down his face before clutching briefly at his chest. “Jesse McCree! In what world do you think it’s appropriate to go wandering outside in your skivvies? In this weather, no less.” He lets out a long breath. “Damn near gave me a heart attack.”

Meanwhile the woman is slowly lowering her broom, a delicate flush rising to her cheeks. “I— I seem to be misunderstanding something,” she says haltingly. Gabe hadn't noticed it when they briefly introduced each other before, but she speaks with a slight accent, something vaguely European.

He manages to wrestle on a straight face just long enough to straighten up, using his sleeve to wipe moisture from the corners of his eyes. “Sister— Sister Ziegler,” he chokes, sniffling a bit. “This is Jesse McCree. He’s staying here.”

“Oh. Goodness.” Sister Ziegler is very pink in the face now, but not nearly as much as Jesse is — absolutely, beautifully firetruck red all the way out to his ears. “I— My apologies.” She wrings her hands, trying to summon up a smile that lends up more like a grimace. “It’s, ah. Good to meet you.” She curtsies belatedly. Jesse stares at her like a deer caught in headlights.

“You too,” he croaks, before bolting for the hallway. Gabe struggles to stifle his giggles as the door to Jesse’s room slams shut, rattling the walls.

“I’ll have a talk with him, Angela,” Jack is saying, even as he’s glancing over his shoulder and looking in dismay at the mess he’s made of the kitchen floor. “A boy his age — he should know better.”

“I was more caught by surprise than anything, Father Morrison.” Sister Ziegler has a delicate, lilting laugh, even in embarrassment. “I am in medical studies, after all — nothing I have not seen before.”

“I think he was more surprised by _you_ ,” Gabe chuckles. “Even though I told him you’d be here before Thanksgiving — he’s got to be embarrassed out of his mind.” Then he adds, before Jack can open his mouth, “Don’t give me that look. You know what Jesse’s like.”

“All the more reason to talk with him,” Jack scowls. He crosses his arms over his chest. “He’ll have to behave now that there’s a lady in the rectory — and a lady his age, no less—”

“Oh, please don’t be too cross with him, Father.” Sister Ziegler lays one of her well-manicured hands on Jack’s bicep — and squeezes gently. The effect is instantaneous, and stupendous indeed: Gabe has the pleasure of watching in amazement as the gears in Jack’s brain appear to stall and fail, his face flushing all the way down to his collar.

“Well.” Gabe thinks there ought to be steam coming out of Jack’s ears. “I— I’m not an unreasonable man—”

“Of course not!” Sister Ziegler exclaims. “And I’m sure dear, ah—” She glances at Gabe in askance.

“Jesse.”

“Jesse, I’m sure he knows that. Now, Father Morrison—”

“Call me Jack.” Jack’s voice is oddly hoarse.

“Jack.” Sister Ziegler dimples sweetly. “Now, I’m not bothered at all. But I was very much hoping that you might show me around the rectory. The kitchen, for instance, so that I might be able to help with Thanksgiving dinner.”

Gabe excuses himself before he has to watch Jack fumble along any longer, afraid he might collapse into another fit of laughter. Instead, he limps down the hallway to Jesse’s room — to see if he can’t coax him out of his den of shame long enough for a late breakfast.

. . .

Thanksgiving is a quiet affair.

Ana and Fareeha are out of town for a couple of days — gone to visit Reinhardt in the town over, Gabe is sure — so it’s just Gabe and Jesse and Jack and Sister Ziegler, who had insisted Gabe call her Angela. Jack says Grace, and then proceeds to stumble his way through an awkward, meandering conversation with Angela, who is in turn very polite and cordial — out of kindness more than anything, Gabe thinks.He hasn’t seen such a display since his middle school days.

The food is delicious, if simple — a small roast turkey, courtesy of Jack; along with mashed potatoes and green beans and a small mountain of sweet bread rolls. Everything is smothered in butter and served with a generous helping of cranberry sauce and red wine.

Oddly enough, Jesse’s usually bottomless appetite seems non-existent — he picks at his plate like a bird, nervous and finicky. “You should eat up,” Gabe tells him. “You’re still growing. Why, I think you’ve grown nearly an inch in the last month.” Jesse merely smiles queasily at him before gulping noisily at his wine — his third or fourth glass, by Gabe’s count.

Then Jesse disappears into the hallway halfway through cleanup, leaving Jack to grumble about manners and the state of today’s youth — “Not you, Angela, of course!” — but judging by the way Jesse had been swaying, he wouldn’t have been much help anyway.

“I hope I am not making him uncomfortable,” Angela says hesitantly as Gabe shows her where to put the cleaned and dried plates. “I know we did not meet on the best of terms.”

Gabe is quick to soothe her worries. “Oh, no. He wouldn’t get caught up on a little thing like that.” As for what could be eating at Jesse — Gabe think he might have some idea. (He still hasn’t told Gabe what happened at his father’s house, but it isn’t too difficult to piece together.) For now, he grins reassuringly at Angela. “I’m sure he thinks you’re swell.”

Angela dips her head — trying to hide a pleased smile.

Still, Gabe goes to check on Jesse once they’re through with the dishes — he’d had an awful lot to drink. He raps on Jesse’s bedroom door. “It’s me,” he calls softly.

No answer.

“Jesse?” He gently nudges the door open.

The room is empty.

For a moment, he just blinks at the rumpled, but vacant bed. Then he cranes his neck back into the hallway and squints through the dim light; the door to his own bedroom is just slightly ajar.

Apprehension steals the breath from his chest.

The desk lamp is on, and it casts a soft golden glow over the room as he steps inside. His shoulders drop slightly — Jesse is merely curled up on his bed, his nose buried in one of his pillows as he clutches it to his chest.

He’s kicked off his jeans, and his long tawny calves splay out over the white sheets. Gabe’s mouth goes dry. He licks his lips.

As he approaches the bed, Jesse stirs and peeps up at him with dark eyes. “Did you get lost?” Gabe murmurs. Without quite thinking about it, he reaches out to skate his fingertips up Jesse’s flank. A minute shiver ripples across Jesse’s skin, followed by gooseflesh.

“Gabe.” His voice is so quiet — so small — that it gives Gabe pause.

“What’s the matter?” He leans forward to push his fingers through Jesse’s hair — tangled as ever. It’s almost past his shoulders at this point; in the spring, Gabe will try to convince him to let him cut it.

Jesse lets out a soft noise, a little whimper — his body starts to unfurl as he twists on the bed, onto his back. Gabe inhales sharply as those long legs settle around his own, trying to urge him forward onto the bed. “Jesse—” He catches one bony ankle. “No.”

Jesse’s lower lip wobbles. His eyes gleam big and sad; his cheeks are flushed with drink. He doesn’t look anything like the wild thing Gabe knows him to be.

He looks lost.

“Why,” he whispers.

“I don’t need that from you, Jesse,” Gabe murmurs. Unable to stand it much longer, he rests one knee on the bed between Jesse’s legs — only to ease the pressure off his bad leg. He brushes his knuckles against Jesse’s cheekbone. “I don’t—”

“But I want it,” Jesse interrupts, his voice pitching up into a whine. “It’s all I can think about anymore, sometimes—” Gabe sucks in a sharp breath as Jesse sits up and reaches out, his fingers grazing the front of his slacks before Gabe can catch his wrist.

“Jesse.” A warning.

“Dontcha want me, Gabe?” He peers up at Gabe with those sad puppy-dog eyes — and in that moment he looks so forlorn that Gabe’s heart damn near breaks.

“Jesse— listen. Of course I do.” Gabe’s voice is fervent and low, soothing as he lets Jesse’s hand drop. “God knows I do—” He stoops and takes Jesse’s face in both of his hands, tilting his chin up. Their noses brush.

“Then show me.” Whispered against his lips.

Gabe sighs. He presses their foreheads together, thumbs rubbing at Jesse’s cheekbones. “I want to, sweet boy,” he whispers. “I do. But I’m an ordained priest, I’ve made _vows_ —”

Jesse turns his head away, eyes gleaming. When he speaks, Gabe can hear the slur in his voice. “Then why let me close at all?” The break in his voice nearly does Gabe in.

“Jesse. . .” It’s hard to find an answer to that — it’s not like Gabe had intended to let Jesse into his heart. Rather, the boy had taken it by storm. “I know it’s not fair. It—” He lets out a harsh breath, drags a hand down his face. “Ay! I _know_ it’s not. It’s why I’m fine with you running off to Johnny every other day.” He ignores the way Jesse stiffens. “You’re just too damn sweet sometimes, Jess. It’s like I can’t think straight.”

Jesse is silent. After a moment Gabe lifts his head and sees him frowning off to the side; the tears in his eyes finally brim over, trailing gently down his cheeks.

“Maybe it would be better for your sake if we just— let it go, Jesse,” he begins, tentatively.

“No!” Gabe hates himself for it, but the fierceness with which Jesse snarls and whips his head around has Gabe’s chest flooding with utterly selfish relief. “No.” His voice gentles by degrees. “I— I don’t know what I’m doin’ most of the time, Gabe.” When Jesse meets his gaze again, there’s nothing but sincerity in his eyes. “But I do know that there ain’t no one who’s ever made me feel the way you do.” Now his eyes drop shyly, his hands fidgeting where they grip at Gabe’s shirtsleeves. “Not Johnny, not no one. Even if we can’t— you know— if you ain’t gonna make me give you up, I’m gonna hang onto you tight as I can.”

Sometimes, Jesse can be surprisingly poetic — poetic enough, in this case, that Gabe is beginning to rethink his vows of chastity right there on the spot. He manfully restrains himself; instead, he leans in to press their lips together.

Jesse tastes like salt and wine. He lets out a soft moan at every swipe of Gabe’s tongue across the seam of his lips, at every gentle nip of his teeth. He tries to return the favor, lips parting and tongue slipping forth, only to let out a whine when Gabe pulls away.

Saliva strands between their lips. “You’re dangerous,” Gabe murmurs, briefly bumping their noses together; it draws a little smile out of Jesse. Gabe has to smooth his hands down the swell of Jesse’s shoulders — filling out more and more with each passing day — before he finally manages to pull himself away.

“Can I at least stay with you tonight?” Jesse asks, probably trying to sound innocent as he nuzzles against Gabe’s chest. Gabe hesitates, a wave of greed welling up in his throat.

Dangerous.

After a moment, he nods. Jesse simpers so sweetly up at him, falling back onto the bed with his legs spread wide..

So very dangerous, Gabe thinks as he turns away to unbutton his shirt. He can feel Jesse’s eyes on his back as he lets it drop to the floor — greedily memorizing every last detail.

. . .

“Jesse, dear, it’s good to see you!”

Jesse freezes in his boots as Mrs. Humphrey pulls him into a tight hug, right in the middle of the aisle — she’s so short that her head comes even with the bottom of his ribcage.

“M-ma’am,” he stutters out, awkwardly patting her on the back until he’s released. “It’s, uh. Swell to see you too. Hope you been doin’ well.”

He’d only stopped by Ana’s to buy a pack of cigarillos, because he could afford to do that now; he hadn’t expected to be accosted by a tiny woman with the apparent strength of an ox. He can feel Ana watching him from over the counter, amused.

The funny thing is, until a little over a month ago, Mrs. Humphrey had been among those parents who despised Jesse and painted him as a devilish influence on their children. It sure is funny — how a little thing like jumping in a river could change people’s minds so fast.

Still, the warmth blooming in his chest like a balloon — that isn’t so bad. Maybe it’s pride.

“And Wallace too,” he adds, just to see the way her face lights up. “He’s doin’ fine? He didn’t get too sick after his fall, or nothin’?”

“Thank goodness, no. I kept him from home from school for a few days, all bundled up in front of the fireplace, and he was right as rain.” She nods sagely. “And thank goodness for that! The water is deathly cold this time of year, you know.”

Jesse does know. He coughs, reaching up to fiddle with hat — only to put his hand back down when he remembers he doesn’t have it anymore. “Well. Well, Good.” He coughs again. “You have a good day then, ma’am.”

Mrs. Humphrey beams at him — she’s kind enough to forgive his faltering. “You as well, dear. And God bless you.”

She bustles away down the aisle, and Jesse is left swaying uncertainly, almost disoriented. He crosses his arms over his chest as he approaches the counter, a bit flushed in the face as he examines the rows of cigarettes and cigars behind Ana.

“Can I—”

“Odd how quickly people’s opinions change, isn’t it?” she speaks over him, voice soft. He stops, ducking his head. Yes, it’s odd — he feels out of sorts, almost like he has whiplash.

“I—”

“Speaking of which,” she interrupts him again. “I think there’s someone who wishes to speak to you.” Jesse blinks and watches as she turns and ducks her head into the doorway behind the counter. She calls out in a language that Jesse doesn’t understand.

A moment later, Fareeha peeks her head out the door. “Yes, Mama?” She freezes the moment she sees Jesse, fingers tightening in the front of her blue smock.

Jesse fights back a grimace. He hasn’t seen her up close since Halloween. “Hey—”

“Wait here,” she blurts, before turning and disappearing into the backroom. Jesse scowls — is it an Amari pastime to continually interrupt him? Ana merely shrugs at him.

While he waits for Fareeha, he has Ana pull down a pack of Phillies for him. “How is Gabriel doing?” she asks as she rings him up, voice betraying nothing. Jesse hesitates.

“I think his leg is botherin’ him a lot more than he lets on,” he says, voice low. “He pretends otherwise, but I— I don’t think he can walk very well right now.”

“Hmm.” Ana’s gaze lowers to the counter. “Winters don’t get as cold in LA as they do here. He’s not used to it.” She ducks below the counter; Jesse hears her rummaging through wooden boxes and metal tins. “And he’s been reliant on that aspirin for far too long. I doubt it even affects him anymore. . . .”

She straightens up just as Fareeha shuffles back in through the door, hands held behind her back. “Ah, there you are. Sweetheart, watch the counter for a moment. I’m going to grab something from the back.” She sweeps through the door and closes it gently behind her, leaving Fareeha and Jesse alone.

They stare at each other in silence for a moment. “Listen,” Jesse says finally. “Before you start in on me for bein’ an idiot—”

“I wasn’t going to,” Fareeha blurts. “Well. You are an idiot.” Jesse scowls; there it is. “But that’s not I was going to say.” Her gaze drops to the floor. “I. . . . was surprised. You were brave.”

Jesse blinks. Of all the things he had been expecting to hear, that was certainly not one of them.

Fareeha goes on, voice soft. “You didn’t even hesitate before jumping in after Wallace.” She glares down at the counter. “And I just stood there. It was half a minute before I thought to go get Rosie—” She blushes. “Sheriff Rosenthal.”

“Well.” Jesse’s at a loss for words. “I also didn’t think to take my boots off before I jumped. Hell, I almost died—”

“But you weren’t afraid to,” Fareeha interrupts. “You didn’t even think about it.”

As Jesse recalls, his body had reacted on its own, separate from all conscious thought. Fareeha is right about that much; there had been very little thinking involved.

“Well, little missy,” he says, after a moment. He rubs at the back of his neck. “There’s nothin’ wrong with bein’ a little cautious. If I’d taken ten seconds to shuck off my boots and pants, I’d have been a lot more help to Wallace. As it was, I just barely got him to shore.”

Fareeha is silent for a moment. When Jesse looks up, she’s got her head tilted to the side, peering at him with considering dark eyes.

“Still. I guess I was wrong about you. Just a little bit.” She draws her hands from behind her back, then; Jesse feels his heart skip a beat.

“Oh,” he croaks. “Where’d you find it?” He reaches out, relief flooding his veins — only for him to draw short when he realizes that the hat Fareeha is holding isn’t his.

“I know it’s not the one you lost,” she mumbles. “I tried looking for it, I really did.” She holds it out over the counter.

After a moment, he accepts it with trembling fingers.

It’s felt, not leather; it’s also well-made, with none of the clumsy stitching and makeshift patches that his Ma’s had had.

“You bought this?” he whispers. There’s no way it’s not brand-new.

She shrugs, hugging her arms to herself. “Mama helped.” She’s trying to keep a straight face, but Jesse can see the way the corners of her mouth are twitching up. “Take it as an early Christmas present.” Then, more seriously: “I thought it was important to you. I never saw you without that hat before.”

“Yeah,” Jesse mumbles. He fingers the brim — the brown felt is soft to the touch, and the band is made of smooth, high-quality leather. “You don’t know how much it means to me.”

He doesn’t realize just how acutely he’d felt its loss until he places the hat back on his head. Out of habit, he tips it at Fareeha, who raises her eyebrows at him; that’s when he realizes that his eyes are threatening to overflow.

“Shut up,” he sniffs, turns away to wipe them on his sleeve. He can feel a curious gaze on him; someone’s gotten in line for the cash register.

“For a brave guy, you sure are a crybaby,” Fareeha says, but there’s no bite to her voice as she steps forward to ring up the customer.

“Me? A crybaby?” He lets out a watery chuckle. “Never.”

Fareeha gives him the first genuine smile Jesse thinks he’s ever seen from her before her attention is pulled away from him entirely.

He turns and leans back, bracing his hands against the edge of the counter. He can’t stop brushing his fingers against the brim of his hat or smoothing his palm over the the crown. Of all the people he’d never expected such a marvelous gift from!

The creak of the backroom door signals Ana’s return. Jesse turns round, only to immediately have a small wooden cigar box pressed into his hands.

“Give this to Gabriel,” she says. Jesse raises his eyebrows in askance. “For the pain.” Then, as an afterthought, she drops a packet of rolling papers on top of the box. “Tell him to use it sparingly. It’s harder to get ahold of than it was a decade ago.”

“Yes’m,” Jesse says after a moment, figuring that he’s not going to get an answer even if he asks.

“Oh, good, the hat fits. I was worried it might be too small.”

Jesse blinks; he can’t help the grin that stretches across his face. “No, ma’am, it’s perfect. Thank you so—”

“Hush.” The smile that Ana gives him is soft, secretive. “You need something to cover that greasy rat’s nest of yours.” Then she dips her head. “Run along, then.”

He tips her hat at her on the way out, the cigar box tucked beneath his arm.

Of course, his curiosity gets the better of him the moment he walks out the door. He stuffs his cigarillos and the rolling papers in his jacket pocket, leaving his hands free to pop open the cigar box.

He’s immediately struck by a pungent, skunky odor that has him wrinkling his nose. Inside is what looks like bunches of dried plant — greener than tobacco leaves, and gathered into individual clumps.

He’s got no idea what it is.

Eyes on him. He glances guiltily from side to side only to realize that Ana is staring directly at him through the store window, raising an eyebrow at him and looking thoroughly unimpressed. Flushing, he snaps the box closed and stuffs it beneath his jacket before hurrying on down the road.

Maybe Gabe will know better than he does.

. . .

“Gabe?”

The rectory is empty. Jesse thinks that Jack had mentioned he and Sister Ziegler were going to attend a man’s deathbed a few miles down the road, but Gabe shouldn’t have been far; not with his leg the way it is.

“Gabe?” Jesse calls again, setting the cigar box down on the kitchen table and shrugging off his denim jacket.

Still nothing.

His boot steps echo down the hallway as he ducks into each individual bedroom — after a moment’s blushing hesitation, even Sister Ziegler’s, which is, thankfully, also empty. There’s no one hogging the bathroom, nor lurking in the cool depths of the basement.

The storage room that branches off of the corridor between the church and the rectory is occupied by nothing but moldy boxes and mice; the dust hanging heavy in the air has Jesse snuffling into the bandana tied around his neck.

His eyebrows furrow in concern as he peeks into the nave only to find it once more empty — until he spots the dark head bowed against the furthest pew. “There you are! Ana’s given me something for you—” He trots down the aisle, boots falling loud against the stone floor, only to slow to an uncertain stride once he realizes Gabe hasn’t lifted his head.

Maybe it’s rude of Jesse to interrupt a man so deeply in prayer — but it’s not like Gabe to just ignore him. “Gabe?” A strange apprehension rises in his throat as he approaches, one he can’t quite place: like he’s walking downstairs in the dark in a strange place and can’t be certain whether or not he’ll miss a step.

“Are you alright?” He reaches out to settle a hand on Gabe’s shoulder.

Lightning fast, Gabe’s hand shoots up to seize Jesse’s wrist. Jesse cries out in shock, then pain as he reflexively tries to wrench away, only to have Gabe’s fingers curl into a deathgrip around his wrist, fingernails digging into his skin. “Shit— Gabe, _stop_ —”

Gabe’s head snaps up. Jesse freezes. Gabe’s eyes are bulging and glassy with tears. Sweat streaks his clammy skin. His mouth moves wordlessly for a few moments, lips trembling.

“Henry?” he whispers.

“No—” Jesse hisses as Gabe’s grip tightens further on his wrist. “No, it’s me! It’s Jesse!”

Gabe’s eyes flit frantically back and forth over his face, as if looking for any trace of dishonesty. Then he lets out a sharp, shuddering breath; his chest heaves. He finally lets go of Jesse’s wrist, leaving dark red marks in his wake.

“Jesse,” he chokes out. His voice is hoarse, as if he’s been screaming. “Jesse. Jesse.”

“It’s me, Gabe.” Jesse’s voice sounds small to his own ears. Trembling. _Scared_. “Are you—” He kneels down beside the pew, reaching out to take Gabe’s face between his hands. His skin is damp with cold sweat. Gabe’s hands quiver as he rests them on Jesse’s shoulders, squeezing slightly.

“Can’t you smell it?” Gabe rasps. He looks alarmingly nauseous.

“What?” The nave smells like it always does: frankincense and must. Jesse tilts his nose up. Outside, the faint scent of oven fire—

“Burning flesh.” Gabe squeezes his eyes shut.

“The Fowler’s Saturday roast,” Jesse breathes. “They must’ve burned it.” His thumbs rub frantic circles over Gabe’s cheekbones. “It’s just—”

One of Gabe’s hands settles over his, clammy and shaking. “The date,” he croaks out.

“Huh?”

“What’s the date.”

“It’s—” Jesse’s shaking slightly too, he realizes. He’s never seen Gabe like this — he never knew Gabe could be like this. “17th of December, Gabe. 1955.”

“Fifty-five,” Gabe mutters under his breath. Then he repeats it, and repeats it, and repeats it, over and over again like a prayer. Fifty-five, fifty-five, fifty-five.

“That’s right.” An idea begins to form at the back of Jesse’s mind. “Gabe— c’mere. I got something I wanna show you.” He grasps Gabe’s hand, tugs at his arm — and Gabe follows him easily, almost limply. He takes one teetering step into the aisle, then crumples, gasping wetly, one hand clutching white-knuckled at his leg.

Jesse swears under his breath and drops to his knees, easing his shoulder beneath one of Gabe’s armpits. “I gotcha.” Gabe is heavy; nearly deadweight as Jesse pushes the both of them to their feet, boots scraping against stone.

It’s a long haul back down the corridor, through the living room and the kitchen, out the back door into the garden. All the while Gabe has his face buried in the side of Jesse’s neck, breathing shallow and wet against his skin.

At first Jesse thinks he’s seeing things when he nudges open the back door. He blinks a few times and realizes that the soil is indeed covered in a thin layer of white: the first snow of the winter. It dusts their heads and shoulders as Jesse steers them through the fence gate, down the grassy hillside, towards the riverbank, and into the ushering arms of the weeping willows.

Gabe doesn’t say a word when Jesse urges him to settle down on the riverbank, cradled between the roots of a particularly ancient willow. He merely curls up at Jesse’s side. The thin layer of frost covering the grass crunches beneath them as they lean against one another. Jesse tentatively puts a hand around Gabe’s shoulders and pulls him close; Gabe shudders, cold nose pushing into the underside of Jesse’s jaw.

For a time, there’s nothing: nothing but the burble of the slow-moving river and the whisper of wind through the willow branches. There’s no scent here but leaves and ice — the cold nips at Jesse’s nose and lips, sharp as glass, but almost comforting in its boldness.

After a time — Jesse can’t be sure how long — Gabe sighs long and loud, breath puffing out in a cloud of vapor; he melts into Jesse’s side.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. Jesse’s never heard such a small voice.

“It’s OK,” he murmurs back. Then, hesitantly. “What happened?”

Gabe says nothing. Jesse can hear the click in his throat as he swallows.

Unbidden, Jesse goes on. “You know, when I was young, my mama used to ask me a question.” His fingers tighten reassuringly on Gabe’s shoulder. “D’you wanna hear it?”

No answer at first; then, hoarsely: “Yes.”

“She’d ask—” Jesse’s voice breaks, and he wets his lips. Even after all this time, the wound is still deep. “She’d say, Jesse, do you know why the willows weep?”

Gabe tilts his head to the side. He’s listening.

“She’d tell me: the willow is a caring tree. She cares for us folks like we’re her own children. So if you’re ever lost, or scared, or—” Jesse can feel his throat tightening, his voice thickening. “Or in so much goddamn pain you can hardly stand it — you can set under the shade of a willow and tell her all your sorrows, all your sufferin’.

“Whatever’s eatin’ you up— you just tell it all to the willows. They’ll take some of your hurt away, and do the cryin’ for you.”

He falls silent. Together, they listen to the wind rustling through the willow branches.

After a moment, when Gabe still hasn’t said anything, Jesse goes on hoarsely, “But it’s just. I guess it’s a thing you tell kids, you know. I just—”

“Morning of December 16, 1944,” Gabe interrupts, quite suddenly. His voice is a weary, croaking thing; he stares straight ahead into the drifting snow and the black water, rubbing absently at his knee. “It’s still dark. We’re dug in the woodlands in Ardennes. It’s snowing hard. I’ve never felt such a bitter cold. . . .”

Together, they sit and brace each other against the biting wind, watching the willow branches sway and dance across the surface of the river as Gabe haltingly, painstakingly whispers his story. Jesse listens in mute horror as Gabe describes the whistle and flare of the German artillery shells; the acrid stench of burning flesh that had only been slightly masked by the howling blizzard. It’s not where he got his bum leg, Gabe says hollowly; that had been later.

Jesse listens. Around them, the willows shift and sigh.

When Gabe finally finishes, he slumps even further into Jesse’s side, as if exhausted. They do not speak for what might have been minutes, what could have been hours, until the wind has started to howl its fury, bringing the snow down in drifts.

Then wordlessly, they rise: hand in hand, they make their way back to the rectory, out of the storm.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first off, i'm SO sorry this chapter took so long! i've been kind of badly depressed and so have just been chipping away at it when i can.
> 
> secondly, to those worried, i've got no plans to abandon this story - it might take a while, but it will be finished. i won't make any promises for update times though


	8. White Christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for dubcon in this chapter

The glass squeaks as Jesse rubs his fist against it, smearing away the fog of his breath. He’s got his nose pressed right up against the window, eyes wide as dinner plates.

He’s never seen so many fine things in one place: delicate pocket watches of silver and gold; jewel-studded cufflinks; silken ties and neckerchiefs in every color of the rainbow; handsome, immaculately fitted dress shirts and suit jackets draped over the shoulders of elegant white mannequins, propped up by dress shoes so shiny that they reflect the glow of the street lamps behind him; and all laid out on a sheet of rich red velvet.

Behind him, a disgruntled sigh. “This is nice and all, Jess, but can we get a move on?” Jesse watches Johnny’s reflection in the window as it scowls and tightly crosses its arms over its chest, jaw set tight.

Jesse throws a smirk over his shoulder. “What’s the matter? Can’t handle a lil’ snow?”

Johnny’s scowl deepens. “Maybe _some_ people here like freezing their balls off, but I still got a little sense in my head.” He kicks at the small snow bank that lines the sidewalk. “‘Sides, it’s almost dark. We oughta beat it.”

Jesse hums noncommittally. He turns his head back to the swanky shop display. Considering. Greedily eying a tall, sleek pair of black leather boots. Johnny’s right; it’s over an hour drive from Albuquerque to Dry Creek, and that’s without taking the ice-slick road into consideration.

But he’s not quite found what he’s been looking for.

“I wanna look around,” he says. Johnny groans, his reflection throwing its hands into the air.

“What the hell you think you’ll be able to buy in here?” He spits into the snow. “You gotta shit gold to shop in these joints.”

Jesse ignores him, already pushing the door open. After a moment, Johnny follows, though he’s muttering profusely under his breath the entire time.

The doorbell jingles merrily as the door swings shut behind them. The clerk glances up from his ledger, briefly. Does a double-take. His gnarled fingers tighten around the fountain pain clutched in his head.

“Can I help you, gentlemen?” he says, voice clipped. For a man as thin as he is, his suit is perfectly fitted. His receding grey hair is swept back neatly, not a strand out of place. He glowers at them over a crooked, beaky nose.

“We’re, uh—” For some reason, Jesse’s tongue goes thick in his mouth. He clears his throat. “We’re just lookin’.”

The clerk raises a single eyebrow. Looks Jesse up and down. Jesse is suddenly made very aware of the patches on his worn-out jeans, the thread-bare patches in his jacket and t-shirt. The grime of the last few days caking his skin. His ears go hot.

“I’m afraid we’re closing very soon,” the clerk says without turning to consult the clock on the wall behind him.

“We’ll be quick,” Jesse blurts. “I’m just lookin’ for a— a gift for a friend.”

Beside him, Johnny goes oddly still.

After a moment, the clerk bites out, “Very well.” His thin lips set into a barely-contained sneer. “Don’t touch anything unless you plan on buying it.”

Jesse nods. Clears his throat again, swallows down the anger simmering in his chest. “Will do.” He hates how his voice cracks; he doesn’t want to be intimidated by this wizened wretch of a man.

So he takes his time. There’s an entire counter dedicated to vibrant cotton bandanas that he spends a good five minutes just poring over, hands clasped pointedly behind his back. He makes a show of perusing the cabinet of soaps and pomades despite how the sheer fragrance makes his eyes water. He carefully inspects the huge display of neatly folded silken ties and scarves, marvelling at some of the truly hideous patterns that the city’s finest apparently deemed worthy to decorate themselves with.

The price tags are making him queasy. Five whole dollars for a simple skinny tie; over twice that for a pair of brown oxfords. Fifty dollars — more money than Jesse has ever seen in his entire life — for a single ugly button-up shirt. He doesn’t even spare a glance at the tags on the fully-suited mannequins, certain he’s better off not knowing.

And he’d thought the sackful of quarters and crumpled dollar bills tucked away in his jacket pocket — twenty-five dollars and some change, the culmination of months of labor and odd jobs around town for anyone who asked — he’d thought that amounted to riches.

“Jess!” Johnny hisses at him, after Jesse has spent a good twenty minutes doing absolutely nothing. Jesse hushes him, minutely tipping his head towards the front counter and grinning. Johnny huffs, rolls his eyes, crosses his arms; but doesn’t push.

A quick glance over his shoulder; the clerk is staring daggers at the pair of them, his fingers curled white-knuckled, claw-like on the counter. Jesse has to bite his bottom lip to keep from snorting.

Finally, out of the corner of his eye, he spots it: an embossed brass stand leaning against one of the tables, bristling with canes of all types and sizes. Simple wooden crooknecks, smooth and well-polished; sleek dark things capped with delicately engraved silver knobs; twisted walking sticks of yew and blackthorn.

One in particular catches his eye. It’s a black derby with a handle of carved ivory. The wood is cool to the touch and finely sanded, glinting prettily under the soft lights of the overhead chandelier. Jesse takes it from the stand, ignoring the tutting clerk behind him. It’s pleasingly light, but not flimsy, not the slightest amount of give beneath his hands. Closer inspection reveals the carvings on the handles to be simple flower and leaf patterns with swirling tendrils running between them.

Elegant, but plain. He wouldn’t want anything too fancy.

Jesse taps it on the marble floor just to hear the pleasing click. “Are you quite done?” the clerk says from behind the counter, voice audibly strained. Jesse glances at Johnny, grinning, only to falter when he finds Johnny staring out the window, arms crossed tightly over his chest and lips pressed thin.

He approaches the counter with the cane cradled in his hands as if it’s a delicate thing. The clerk snatches it from him, glowering.

Ten dollars and fifty cents, he tells Jesse, who suddenly feels a little faint. He’s never spent so much money at once.

Solemnly, he reaches into his inside coat pocket and draws out his heavy little gunny sack. The clerk’s face goes slack with something like grim acceptance as Jesse upends it, a small mountain of change clattering across the counter.

He meticulously counts out each dollar, arranging each one in a stack of four. At this point he realizes he’s being petty, but comeuppance is comeuppance. The clerk doesn’t even bother to count it all again when he’s finally finished, sweeping it all to one side and hurriedly scribbling out a receipt. He stops just short of throwing the cane in Jesse’s face, biting out a venomous, “Good day, gentlemen,” before frantically shooing them out the door.

It’s nearly dark out now. The wind-whipped clouds overhead swirl in a foreboding shade of black and violet, threatening to loose the storm at any moment.

Still, Jesse walks with his head held high, so warmed by a sense of vicious triumph that he hardly feels the snow steadily settling on his shoulders. His fingers pluck at the fine cloth drawstring bag that he’d been given to cover the cane.

But it’s not like Johnny to be so quiet. Jesse steps close, nudges him with his shoulder.

“Think he’ll like it?”

He shrinks back a moment later when Johnny rounds on him.

“Who?” he snaps, hackles raised. Then, “How the hell should I know?”

Wisely, Jesse drops the matter entirely.

Instead, he lets the whistle of the wind around their ears and the crunch of the snow beneath their feet fill the silence.

. . .

Johnny’s hand is clapped almost painfully hard over Jesse’s mouth, mashing his teeth into the insides of his lips and muffling his desperate little whimpers. Jesse’s cheek feels raw, scraped where it’s knocking against the brick wall with every frantic movement. His jeans are shoved down, bunched around his bruised knees as they tremble from the cold and exertion.

Johnny has never been so violent. He’s got Jesse pinned, and he takes, _demands_ , with enough force that Jesse thinks he might collapse.

Nor has he ever been so bold; the wall that Jesse’s scrabbling at skirts the edge of a wide-open car park. It’s dark, and in a quieter part of town, and Jesse doesn’t think many sane people would be wandering around in this weather, but that doesn’t change the facts:

Anyone could round the corner and see Johnny hunched over his back like a dog. Humping him fast and shallow. Their boots slipping and scraping in the dirty snow. The only thing that’s masking Jesse’s moans is Johnny’s hand and the purr of the Corvette in idle behind them, vapor billowing from the exhaust pipe.

The idea of it, of someone finding them, exhilarates Jesse almost as much as it terrifies him.

But he can’t make sense of it; this isn’t _like_ Johnny. Growling and panting right into Jesse’s ear, fingers digging bruises into his hip bones. “You like that?” he asks, voice low. Breath whispering over the shell of Jesse’s ear. He drops the hand covering Jesse’s mouth.

Jesse shudders. Nostrils flaring.

“J— J—ah, ah—”

He can hardly speak. It as though the air is being punched out of him with every vicious thrust. Electricity surges through his veins as he feels Johnny’s teeth set into the side of his neck, sharp bright pain, threatening to break the skin.

Jesse’s almost frightened. He’s bigger than Johnny now, a late growth spurt putting him ahead in both height and sheer mass, but like this, bent over and taking it for all he’s worth, he feels hopelessly small. He’s also achingly hard. His cock is twitching, dripping like a leaky faucet despite the freezing air that’s numbing his nose and ears, and fingers as they dig into the mortar between the bricks.

“Am I better?”

The question comes out nowhere. It doesn’t make a lick of sense to Jesse’s pleasure-addled brain.

“Huh?” he asks, breathless. Then he stuffs his knuckles in his mouth to muffle his cry as Johnny shoves in just right, so hard that it’s just the right side of agony. Jesse arches into it, nearly sobbing. He sees stars.

He’s going to be sore tomorrow.

Then, all at once, Johnny pulls out of him and away. Jesse shudders and whines, left cold. Hole clenching around nothing, empty. Then he chokes on his own breath as Johnny seizes him by the arms and yanks him around. He’s shoved back onto the hood of the Corvette, the air knocked out of him with the force of it. Most of the snow has melted from the heat of the idling engine; a saving grace in the frigid weather.

Metal groans beneath their combined weight as Johnny leans over him.

Johnny doesn’t seem to care. He grabs Jesse’s ankles and drags him down the hood. Wrenches his legs wide open. Pushes back in all at once without so much as a by-your-leave, all coarse, brute strength. Jesse’s eyes roll back in his head, mouth falling open.

“Johnny—”

Maybe, maybe.

Is _this_ what maybe is?

(Is this what he wants?)

The end is just as violent as the delight: a snarl tears from Johnny’s lips as he slams home and stays, his hips twitching as he fills Jesse up, liquid, molten. His fingers score Jesse’s waist.

Jesse can’t help his whimpers, his gasps and moans. He’s sore and aching and terribly torn between wanting more of it forever and never wanting to be touched again.

Then his back bows, the muscles in his belly bunching and tensing as Johnny reaches between them and starts to jerk him off. Rough, dry, raw — Jesse feels as if the pleasure is being torn from him by force. That doesn’t stop him from painting his own belly, gritting his teeth in an awful mix of pain and ecstacy.

His chest heaves, stomach roils; slightly quelled by the soft press of Johnny’s lips to the corner of his mouth, wet and clumsy.

Jesse tilts his chin up to kiss him back, and very carefully doesn’t think of dark eyes and church steeples.

. . .

“Gabe?”

Jesse only just remembers to rap politely at Gabe’s door instead of barging right in. They’ve shared a bed often enough in the past month that it’s easy to forget this isn’t his space, even though Gabe doesn’t seem to mind Jesse coming and going as he pleases.

A long pause. Then Gabe grunts. “Yeah?”

It’s strange: Gabe sounds half-asleep, his voice low and rough. But it’s past midday, the afternoon sun shining brightly through the windows, and Gabe rarely sleeps in past the crack of dawn.

(Habits from the army days, he says.)

Jesse nudges the door open, newspaper tucked beneath one arm. “Uh, so, I was lookin’ at what movies will be showin’ at the drive—”

He stops short in the doorway. He coughs, wrinkling his nose, and waves a hand in front of his face. The room is hazy with smoke and a skunky, offensive stench that Jesse only vaguely recognizes. The southern window is just cracked open. Beside it, Gabe lounges in a squat armchair he must have dragged in from the common room, legs splayed wide and one arm lazily draped over the back of it. And in his other hand—

“I didn’t know you smoked,” Jesse blurts, startled.

Gabe blinks at him. Then glances at the hand-rolled cigarette pinched between his thumb and forefinger. “Sometimes,” he says after a moment, staring at it as if it contains the mysteries of the universe.

For some reason, his cheeks darken.

Jesse lets the door swing shut behind him with a soft click. “What is that?” He steps forward cautiously, slowly, as if Gabe will get spooked if he moves too fast. “Don’t smell like any tobacco I ever heard of.”

At that, Gabe tilts his head back and chuckles. Jesse finds his gaze drawn to the strong muscle of his throat, the salt-and-pepper stubble on the underside of his jaw. “It’s not tobacco,” Gabe drawls.

Jesse spots it then, on the table: the cigar box that Ana had given him weeks ago. He takes another step forward. “Then….?”

“It’s my,” Gabe gestures vaguely with one hand, idly searching for his words. “Special medicine.” Then he snorts, as if he’s said something clever.

Jesse stares at him. “Are you drunk?’

Gabe meets his eyes levelly. Takes a long drag; exhales. The smoke curls out of his mouth in delicate tendrils. “No.” He sways in place.

Something awakens in Jesse’s belly. Bubbling, simmering. He’s never seen Gabe like this, belligerent, mulish.

It’s unbearably enchanting.

“Can I try?”

He reaches for the strange cigarette. Gabe grunts, holds it away from him and swats at his hand. “Not for you,” he says, petulant.

Jesse pouts, lower lip pooching out. “Gabe….” he says, drawing it out with a sweet, pleading lilt.

“No.”

“Please?” Jesse huffs and squirms and puts his hands on either arm of the armchair, leaning forward into Gabe’s space. They breathe in the same smoky air. Gabe lifts his chin and regards him from beneath the dark sweep of his eyelashes. His eyes glitter.

“Quit that, brat.” Gabe’s voice is gruff, but his twitching lips give him away.

Jesse’s never been above playing dirty.

In one fluid movement, he drops himself into Gabe’s lap, his knees settling on either side of Gabe’s hips. Air whistles through Gabe’s teeth as he inhales sharply. His hands flutter around Jesse’s waist, not-quite-touching but close enough that Jesse can feel the heat of them.

“Please,” Jesse asks again.

“You’re awful.” Gabe rubs at his smoke-reddened eyes. “You’re going to kill me.”

Jesse rests his hands on Gabe’s chest. He can’t help but press his fingertips into the soft round muscle there, briefly. “Just a lil’ bit.”

Gabe lets out a long, steady breath and peers up at him, wary, considering. He doesn’t say a thing. Then, without looking away, he brings to cigarette to his lifts and takes a long, thoughtful drag.

Jesse whines, sulky — and gasps when Gabe curls a hand behind head and tugs him down, pushing their mouths together.

Thick, pungent smoke curls down Jesse’s throat, hot and smooth. His shoulders spasm, a few aborted coughs wracking his chest. He forces himself to relax, taking it in deep and slow. Gabe’s lips are so soft and warm against his own, slightly wet. His breath smoky, shaking.

Jesse’s eyes fall half-lidded. “It tastes awful,” he breathes against Gabe’s skin.

“I know.”

“Do it again.”

Gabe lets out a broken little groan, legs stirring restlessly. “I shouldn’t be doing this,” he says miserably. “You’re going to kill me.”

Jesse can feel the stiff press of him against his rear. It twitches as Gabe breathes smoke into his lungs, once, twice, again and again, and again until they’re both panting, mouths slick with kisses.

It starts as a quiet buzzing in the back of Jesse’s head. A pleasant tingling in his fingers and toes that spreads up his limbs and into his chest. At first it’s nothing.

But then Gabe is grumbling at him as Jesse braces his hands on his chest and sits back on his knees, slack-jawed. His body is heavy and fuzzy. His head — oddly detached. His hands paw restlessly at the swell of Gabe’s breast, marveling at the stiff texture of his woolen knit sweater.

Gabe reaches up and cups Jesse’s cheek. Drags a thumb over his kiss-bruised lips. Jesse pushes into it, eyelids fluttering.

“Alright?” Gabe asks him.

Jesse’s gaze slowly drifts across the room. His eyes feel so heavy. The world moves strangely. It’s not like the swaying, tilting, almost sickening haze of whisky. Time seems to have slowed down. As he moves his head, every object takes on its own after-image.

He finds himself tracking every bump and divot in the texture of the wall. The wispy strands of cobwebs in the corners of the windows seem to glisten. The warm glow of Gabe’s desk lamp is dazzlingly brilliant, almost blinding.

He blinks, twice, slowly. He doesn’t realize he hasn’t answered until Gabe laughs at him, quietly.

“Ah,” Jesse says. Right then, it’s all he can bring himself to say.

Gabe’s hand slips down to his shoulder. His thumb taps against Jesse’s Adam’s apple. Rubbing gently, as if savoring the feel of Jesse’s skin.

Jesse likes the way the calluses on Gabe’s fingers pull and scrape, sending little shivers down his spine.

The shivers give way to the heat pooling between his legs. It’s not a desperate hot rush like it usually is, but slow and sweet, building up gradually in his belly.

He rolls his hips gently, experimentally.

Beneath him, Gabe rumbles. His hands come to rest on Jesse’s waist.

Shifts restlessly beneath him, hips rising up his own. Jesse’s lips part. Gabe is warm and firm, a wonderful point of pressure poking in between his thighs.

It’s the first time that Jesse’s been allowed to feel it — and yet there’s no sense of urgency. Even when Gabe pats his hip and nudges him off of him, and then over to the bed; it’s a hot little thrill, but not one that consumes him. The cigarette is abandoned in the ashtray on the bedside table, and Jesse settles into the cradle of Gabe’s lap, arching into Gabe’s hands as they palm at his ass.

They rock and nuzzle and sigh together for what might be a few minutes, what could be a few hours. It’s impossible to say. Jesse can’t bring himself to look away from Gabe for a single second to spare a glance towards the ticking clock on the desk.

Eventually they begin to still. Jesse drapes himself bodily over Gabe, limbs sprawling and face tucked into the side of Gabe’s neck. He mouths vaguely at the salty skin; Gabe sighs, pleased.

And they begin to talk.

About nothing, at first: about the blue-grey of the overcast afternoon sky; about the scratchiness of the quilt they’re laying on, the one Jack dragged up from the cellar after a particularly cold night; about the rasping croaks from the crows in the graveyard, the ones that hop from headstone to headstone and pick worms from the hallowed soil.

Little by little, their bodies drift apart. Jesse’s splayed out on his back, one leg draped over both of Gabe’s. An arm jammed awkwardly beneath his back. If Gabe is uncomfortable, he doesn’t seem to mind; he’s laying on his side with one hand resting on his belly, the other massaging lightly at his knee.

“Does it hurt?” Jesse asks. He’s fixated on the shape of Gabe’s hand as it works the tender muscle just above the knee, taking in every shift of vein and bone.

“No.” Gabe is staring dreamily into space, at the wall just behind Jesse’s head. Unblinking.

Jesse leaves it at that.

And they just talk.

“You wanted to be a pilot, right?”

Jesse braces for the jolt of pain, the pang of longing; but it’s merely a dull ache in his chest, a echo of an echo of childish dreams put to rest by his own shortcomings. “Yeah.” He scratches idly at the hair beneath his chin. “My…. I used to ask Pa to tell me stories. About the war.” He sees Gabe’s throat bob, his eyes going tight around the corners. He remembers, years too late, the same expression on his father’s face. “Mostly, he’d tell me about the planes. ‘Bout the whine of the engines in the distance. The dogfights over the farm fields. He and the other GI’s used to place bets on which guy was gonna go down in flames first.”

He sighs, quietly, fingers picking idly at the quilt. “‘Bout the firework show of the bombs at night. Red and yellow and white. Sometimes,” he licks his lips. “Sometimes I think I would’ve liked to see it.”

“No,” Gabe says, steady and quite matter-of-fact. “You wouldn’t’ve.”

Jesse shuts his mouth with a click. He’s got nothing to say to that.

They lapse into a strained silence.

After a time, Gabe speaks up. “You aren’t scared of heights?”

The question takes Jesse by surprise. “No.” Then, almost incredulously, “You are?” For some reason, he’d never imagined Gabe to be fearful of anything.

Gabe shrugs, a brief twitch of his shoulders and the hand resting atop his belly. “Yes.” He shifts then, adjusting the pillow behind his head. Then he reaches over to take one of Jesse’s hands in his. Painstakingly gentle. “I was going to be a paratrooper. Did you know? I thought it’d make me hot shit.” His face cracks into a grin. “I almost fainted the first time I went up in the plane, in bootcamp.”

Jesse can’t stop the laugh that bubbles up in his throat. “You’re kiddin’ me.”

“No sir.” Gabe shakes his head, still grinning widely. “When we set back down on the ground, the drill sergeant cussed me out and called me a sissy. I was sent off to the regular old infantry the very next day.”

“Wow.” Jesse lets his head thump back onto the mattress as he plays out the scene in his head. He imagines an infantile Gabe, beardless and soft-faced, shivering in an oversized helmet and fatigues as the plane takes off. Swooning like a damsel in a Hollywood movie when they reach twelve hundred feet. He snorts, snickering quietly to himself. Gabe elbows him in the side.

Jesse gazes up at the ceiling, smile slowly fading. He chances a glance over at Gabe. “You…. didn’t like being a soldier, did you?”

Gabe’s thumb pauses where it’s been rubbing circles over the back of Jesse’s hand. The pause stretches on. Long enough that Jesse begins to fidget, discomfited. He opens his mouth, about to apologize.

Gabe clears his throat. “No,” he says, simply. “Not at all.”

They leave it at that.

. . .

“Gee whizz, you really put on some meat,” Tim says, stark admiration on his voice. “It’s only been four months. What the hell they been feeding you at the church?”

He’s squeezing somewhat greedily at the meat of Jesse’s bicep, bony fingers poking hard into the swell of muscle. Jesse grins and flexes just for the hell of it, chest puffing up with pride. He’s no strongman, but at least his arms aren’t ropey twigs anymore. “G— Reyes knows how to spice up even Morrison’s cookin’, believe it or not. I get roast chicken at least twice a week.” His grin widens at Tim’s envious groan.

At his other side, Jimmy scowls, eying him up and down. “You grew too,” he says, sniffing as he uses his hand to level the top of his head with the bottom of Jesse’s chin. “How’s it you grew two whole inches and it feels like me and Tim only shrank?”

“It’s on account of my good genes,” Jesse drawls. Jimmy snorts as if he’s said something ridiculous. “And I betcha boys don’t get much in the way of good eats in those fancy college dorms of yours.”

“That’s for sure,” Tim says glumly. “Dad wouldn’t agree to raise our allowance for the month, so I had to get a job as a busboy just to put some food on the table. A busboy! Can you believe that?”

“What the hell you been doing with the money your pa sent you?”

Tim grimaces, then glances guiltily to the side. “So maybe me and Jimmy treated a couple dolls to dinner and drinks once or twice. A few times. It’s only polite for a fella to do, right?”

“You’re not even old enough to drink. How’d you get the ‘tender to serve you?”

Jimmy looks at Jesse as if he’s said something particularly stupid. “The city ain’t like here, nosebleed,” he says, as if it’s obvious. “Nobody knows anyone there. The ‘tender don’t know us, and no-one’s about to ask for a card.”

“Alright, geez. Forgive a guy for askin’.” Jesse tries not to let the hurt show in his voice. The twins — Jimmy in particular — have definitely gotten a lot snippier since he’s seen them last.

And despite their complaints, they’ve filled out quite a bit in the months they’ve been away. Softer around the middle, and broader around the shoulders. They’ve even tried their hand at growing scraggly blond mustaches. Tim’s extends down to a dusting of scruff on his chin, presumably to make the two of them easier to tell apart.

Dickie, for his part, doesn’t seem to have changed in the slightest. Maybe he’s a little rounder, but he’s always been on the portly side, so it’s difficult to say. He’s certainly just as quiet and ponderous as ever, lagging behind the rest of them as they pick their way through the underbrush.

The most startling change is in Eugene. The army has really done wonders for him: his thick plastic-framed glasses are in place as ever, magnifying his eyes to an almost startling degree, but he’s straight-backed and broad-shouldered, head held high. A far cry from the goblin-like posture that Jesse is used to. His chin is still baby-smooth, but his cherub-cheeks have given way to the firm, square set of his jaw. He even speaks differently. Still soft-spoken, but the timidity so ingrained in him has given way to a quiet sort of resolve.

At the very least, the pouch of his pump inhaler is still fastened securely around his neck. Jesse is strangely relieved for it; without it, he felt as though Eugene might as well have been a different man entirely.

And Johnny — well, Johnny’s been around. At the moment he seems to be in quite a foul mood, glaring thunderously at his boots as they trudge along the grassy trail that winds west out of town. Maybe it’s because he drew the short straw and has been saddled like a pack mule with their bundle of fishing poles and box of tackle, which he’s slung carelessly across one shoulder and beneath his arm.

But somehow, Jesse doesn’t think that’s it. Johnny looks almost troubled. Shooting glances at the side of Jesse’s head when he doesn’t think Jesse can see, worrying his lower lip with his teeth until it’s almost bloody. Fingers tapping a nervous tattoo against his leg.

Later. Jesse will ask later.

For now, as they approach a dense wall of brambles and willows, he sets to the task of trying to find the little tunnel of branches that they had carved out over the years of back and forth. It’s been over half a year since anyone set foot in this place, so it proves quite the task. The vast blackberry and raspberry bushes are now wild, overgrown, the hanging fronds of the weeping willows caught and tangled in the thorns.

When the boys finally crawl out onto the shore of Sandy Cheeks Cove, they’re all sweating and panting and covered in dozens of hair’s breadth scratches. Jimmy and Tim spend a good five minutes picking all the twigs out of one another’s tightly curled hair. Jesse, for his part, merely shakes himself off and collapses onto the soft sand.

Even in the dead of winter, the sand is warm, soaking up every ounce of heat it can manage from the weak sun. It’s pleasant enough that Jesse finds himself dozing for a brief moment, arms stretched above his head.

Something smacks him in the face, hard enough to sting. He jerks and hisses and slits his eyes open just enough to see Johnny brandishing one of the fishing poles at him, lips set in a sullen frown. Jesse stops just short of yanking the pole out of his hand and throwing it back in his face, biting back the growl threatening to tear out of his chest. He’s not going to start shit about it right now, right here, of all places.

Some people have churches. This small stretch of beach, surrounded by a wall of thorns — this is their hallowed space.

So he grunts his thanks and takes the pole, ignoring Johnny’s silence as he turns to the water.

It’s been too long since he last went fishing. His mind wanders far too much for him to do it alone; he needs someone to to talk to, to keep him grounded. Johnny rarely has the time — or the temper — and Gabe’s leg keeps him close to the church, too close to make the trek to any of the good spots.

So Jesse hums distractedly as he goes about setting up his tackle. He’d tied the flies himself the night before, sat down in front of the fireplace and occasionally peering over at the intense chess game taking place on the coffee table. It had been of one Morrison’s rare victory nights. Gabe had been sore enough about it that he’d glanced over Jesse’s work and chided him for being sloppy, the ties too uneven or the hooks too loose.

But Jesse thought they looked alright. They’d get the job done, in any case.

He casts out as far as he can. The fly strikes the dark water near the opposite shore, flitting gently in the current. Satisfied, Jesse buries the pole in the sand and lays back down on his belly, scooting upshore until he’s a safe distance from the lapping water. He pillows his head on his crossed arms and for a moment just daydreams about the kinds of spices Gabe might pair with a big fat rainbow trout.

Something tugs at the waistband of his jeans and Jesse jerks, startled. He cranes his head over his shoulder, grumbling, only for his breath to catch in his throat when he comes face to face with Jimmy’s — or is it Tim’s — groin. His jeans are starting to tent out, the fabric straining.

Jesse swallows, hard. His heart sinks. Deep down, in the back of his head, he’d known the true purpose of this little outing. But he’d thought that maybe if he just—

For once, he’d just wanted to _fish_. He’d thought that if he played it cool, he could at least get away with that much.

“Ah. Maybe later, boys,” he says. He tries.

Something hot and slimy curls in his gut as big, soft hands — Dickie’s? — grab at his jeans and yank them down, over the curve of his ass. Baring him. He pushes up onto his elbows, a weak protest already dying on his lips.

“Aw, come on,” one of them says to Jesse’s other side. Jesse swings his head around. A strange tremble starts in his belly, oddly reminiscent of nausea. Tim-or-Jimmy lazily brandishes his stirring cock at his face, stroking it slowly. “We’re gone for a few months and suddenly we’re chopped liver?”

“I—” Even Eugene is kneeling down by his feet, though the look on his face is vaguely shameful, hands crossed between his legs. “Wait just a sec, fellas—” In a last-gasp effort, Jesse peers desperately over his shoulder, over to where Johnny is sitting apart from the rest of them beneath the curtain of the largest weeping willow. Johnny holds his gaze for only a split second before dropping it to the ground. His hands are curled into fists, his brow set low over his narrowed eyes and his lips pressed into a miserable frown.

But he doesn’t say a single thing. Fabric rustles as Dickie shimmies out of his jeans and underwear, kicking them to one side.

Jesse hangs his head. “I guess a little couldn’t hurt,” he says, mumbling down at the sand.

“Well, gee! Don’t look so put out about it.” Tim — he’s sure that’s Tim — sighs happily as Jesse’s hand wraps around his dick. “Way to hurt a guy’s feelings.”

Jesse isn’t sure what changed in the months since he saw them last, but as he leans over to take it into his mouth, his skin crawls. Beyond the salt and sweat and musk, he tastes bile. It hardens readily on his tongue, stretching his jaw wide open. After a brief struggle, gagging, spit dripping down his chin, he forces himself to relax enough to take it into his throat.

Out of the corner of his eye, through a blur of tears, he watches Johnny get up to join them.

This isn’t what I wanted, Jesse thinks as he takes Tim as deep as he can, the blond mess of his pubes tickling at the tip of Jesse’s nose. His jaw already aches.

He almost chokes as big hands palm at his ass, squeezing. Too soft to be Johnny. Dickie? Dickie, who’s as square as they come. A clumsy, curious thumb presses roughly at his hole, dry, scraping. Jesse winces, tensing up reflexively. “How are you supposed to get in here?” he hears Dickie ask, in a tone of mild surprise. “At least girls are made for this.”

Suddenly: a snarl, a yelp. Jesse pulls off of Timmy with a wet noise and turns his head just in time to see Johnny shoving Dickie to one side, lips pulled back to bare his teeth. Dickie is frowning and rubbing his arm, politely put-out, perhaps a little confused. But something like understanding unfurrows his brow when Johnny clambers in between Jesse’s spread legs, hunching over him in Dickie’s place.

Then Dickie’s face does something Jesse’s never seen before: his lips curl into a smug smirk, nose wrinkling as if he’s smelled something rotten. His eyes narrow, glinting and beady.

Vividly, Jesse recalls the same expression on the candy apple vendor’s face, from a summer fair that feels like forever ago.

He turns back to Timmy before the nausea in his throat can get the better of him.

I want to go home, he thinks as Dickie settles for one of his hands instead, pushing insistently against his palm. His big soft hand wraps around Jesse’s fingers, squeezing to make sure his grip it tight enough.

Behind him, he hears the clink of a belt buckle, the zip of a fly. He squeezes his eyes shut and waits.

But, surprisingly — perhaps mercifully — Johnny doesn’t bother trying to force him open. Instead, he settles against Jesse’s ass and begins to rut in short, jerky motions. The head of his cock catches several times on Jesse’s hole, making his breath seize painfully in his chest, but each time it slides past to butt against the swell of his balls.

He wonders if—

He knows. This is Johnny’s way of apologizing.

Maybe, maybe— maybe _what_?

Tim’s orgasm brings Jesse’s no relief, nor does Dickie’s. Each man wants his turn, and all of them want several. Back and forth, back and forth, until the sun has started to drop low on the horizon. Until Jesse feels stretched thin and ruined, sore and dirty.

At the very least Johnny is a heavy, grounding presence on top of him. Jesse thinks he might have floated out of his own head otherwise.

But when the others wash the filth off their skin and pull their clothes on and make their way to the tunnel of thorns, Johnny goes with them. Jesse begs off, laughing weakly about how he needs a nice long bath after a workout like that.

And then he is alone, hunched on the beach with his knees clutched to his chest as the winter wind raises goosebumps across his skin.

He sits, staring at the dark water until he’s shuddering violently with the cold and the moon is reflecting in the ripples of the current.

Then he stands. Shuffles forward until the water is lapping at his feet. He curls his toes in the silty sand.

He takes a step forward.

. . .

Gabe opens his eyes with a groan to a gentle tapping on his window. He reaches out, fumbles in the dark until his fingers find the chain of the lamp on the bedside table. It’s almost blinding at first; he gives himself a moment to adjust before squinting at the clock on his desk.

He swears.

Jesse had mentioned he might be coming home a little late, but half past one in the morning is a serious trial of Gabe’s patience. Out of spite, he lays in bed for a full minute, arm draped over his eyes and ears deaf to the tapping on the window that only gets more and mores insistent.

Finally, with a grunt, a growl, he throws the quilt off and pushes himself to his feet. The floor is freezing, only adding to his ire as he limps over to the window and throws it open.

“Jesse McCree, I swear to—”

He stops short, mouth hanging open mid-sentence. Jesse smiles wearily up at him.

He’s _soaked_. And dressed in naught but his skivvies, to boot. Droplets of water roll down his nose and cheeks and bare chest. His hair clings wetly to his forehead.

It glistens with little crystals of ice.

Gabe swears, more emphatically this time.

“Jesse, what the _fuck_ are you doing?” he says, voice strangled. He reaches through the window as if to bodily pull Jesse into the room himself. Thankfully Jesse obliges him, hoisting himself up over the window sill.

He’s immediately hit in the face by the quilt that Gabe hurriedly tosses at him. Gabe mutters under his breath the entire time that he’s yanking the quilt around Jesse’s shoulders. For once Jesse makes his life easy, only squirming a little bit as he’s bundled so tightly he can’t even lift his arms. Then Gabe takes his face in his hands, pushing the wet strands of hair out of his face.

“Jesse,” Gabe says, trying to ignore the way his voice trembles. “What happened?” He presses his lips to Jesse’s forehead and just breathes, slow and hot, and feels the warmth spread across his clammy skin.

Jesse shudders bodily. He crowds as close to Gabe as he can manage with the quilt between them. Gabe obliges him, wrapping his arms around Jesse’s shivering body.

“I just went for a swim, that’s all,” Jesse mumbles into Gabe’s shoulder.

“In this weather? It’s supposed to snow tonight, you idiot!”

Jesse doesn’t seem to have anything to say to that. He merely droops, sniffling quietly into Gabe’s nightshirt.

Gabe sighs, one hand rubbing apologetically up and down Jesse’s back. This close, it’s readily apparent how much Jesse has grown; he’s even a little taller than Gabe now, stooping as he leans against him.

“Alright, Jess,” he says when the weight becomes too much for his leg to bear. He pats Jesse’s hip. “Let’s go to bed.”

Jesse follows him quite willingly, snuggling as close as physically possible and clinging like an octopus as Gabe settles down beside him. His cold nose pokes into the side of Gabe’s neck, his hot breath ruffling the little hairs on his nape.

It’s the most comfortable Gabe’s been in a long time. He’ll save the lecture for later — not that he expects Jesse to be at all forthcoming. He rarely is when it concerns his own health and safety.

For now, they sleep.

. . .

  
“I’ll be home for Christmas….”

It’s like a scene from a Hollywood movie: the fire crackles merrily on the hearth, licking at a large pan of chestnuts that are just beginning to pop and shift. Their warm, nutty aroma fills the air, mixing with the scents of pine and hot cocoa. A mug of which Gabe currently has his face buried in; not really drinking so much as deeply inhaling.

He’s almost in a coma, he’s so overstuffed with Christmas dinner. He’s slumped back on the couch, lying almost supine with one hand resting on the firm swell of his stomach. Eyes glazed over, sweating slightly — that’s how full he is.

And yet he’s utterly content. Christmas at Our Lady of Guadalupe has been a quiet, festive affair. They’d just finished singing carols to varying degrees of success; Jack’s rough, gravelly voice doesn’t lend itself singing, and Angela is surprisingly tone deaf. Jesse’s about the only one among them who can carry a decent tune. Still, it had been in the spirit of things and was certainly good for a laugh, though Gabe has a feeling everyone’s glad that the radio is now making up for their shortcomings.

Now Angela is in the kitchen is fussing over everyone’s dirty dishes while Jack fusses over her, almost begging her to go sit down and relax.

“They’ll still be here in the morning,” he says, almost desperately, with the expression of a man who’s one step away from wrestling the scrub brush out of Angela’s hands.

“And that’s exactly why I want to wash them _now_ ,” she says, trying to be stern, but Gabe can see her fighting back a smile. She swats at Jack’s arm. “Hands to yourself, Father Morrison!”

Gabe hides his smirk in his cocoa mug as he watches the pink flush spread up the back of Jack’s neck, getting briefly lost in the grey of his hair before it finds its way to his ears.

“...Christmas Eve will find me, where the lovelight gleams…”

He spares a glance over at Jesse. He’s leaning against the windowsill with a mug of his own warming his hands. His breath fogs up the glass as he gazes out into the night, watching the snow fall soft and steady beneath the warm glow of a streetlamp.

He hasn’t been quite himself the past few days. Not angry, or sad, exactly. More like quietly contemplative, as if he’s finally coming to a conclusion on a matter that’s been weighing heavily on him for quite some time.

Gabe is content to let him be. He knows that Jesse will come to him when he’s ready.

(He hopes.)

Sparing a glance over at the kitchen, Gabe decides to show Jack a little mercy and end the dishes debate altogether.

“Alright, everyone,” he calls, grunting as he struggles to lift himself upright. His stomach gurgles its complaint. “I think it’s about time we opened gifts.”

He sees more than hears Jack’s sigh of relief as Angela reluctantly abandons the dishes. For the time being, anyway.

They all settle down in front of the tree. It still smells heavenly; Gabe is glad that he’d pitched in for a real blue spruce delivered all the way from Colorado rather than throw out his back dragging the tinsel monstrosity up out of the basement. It’s a treat to look at, too; full and bushy, skirted with red velvet and bristling with white and gold baubles.

But he supposes the main attraction lays beneath the boughs. Boxes wrapped in brightly colored paper and glistening bows, most of which Gabe had seen lining the shelves at Ana’s. A far cry from the simple brown-paper-and-twine packages of his youth.

Gabe can immediately tell which of the gifts are from Jesse by how lumpy and misshapen they are, the paper crumpled around the edges. He grins despite himself. Terribly, hopelessly fond.

“....I’ll be home for Christmas…. If only in my dreams….”

Gabe insists that Jack goes first. “Age before beauty,” he teases. Jack’s scowl only lasts a split-second before clearing away at the sound of Angela’s laughter, instead making way for a sheepish grin.

Jack makes out quite well for himself. From Gabe, a shiny new set of gardening tools that Jack regards with a glint of avarice in his eyes. Angela’s gift — Gabe personally finds it a bit strange, but supposes it must be a private joke judging by the smile on her face. A plush, royal blue bathrobe wrapped around a Zürich Bible. For some reason, Jack turns red all over again, his fervent thanks almost hoarse.

He seems pleasantly surprised by the thoughtfulness of Jesse’s gift, a bottle of his favorite pinot noir. Gabe decides not to tell him that he’d told Jesse exactly what to buy, down to the specific brand and vintage.

Angela receives a box of Swiss chocolates and a tin of fragrant black tea from Jesse, and a ponderous medical encyclopedia from Gabe. She thanks the both of them with a wide, pearly-white smile, but it’s Jack’s gift of bath salts and lavender oil that really seems to choke her up, cheeks flushed with pleasure.

Another private joke?

Then it’s Jesse’s turn. He regards his own gifts with a sort of apprehension in his eyes; Gabe has to wonder how long it’s been since he’s had a proper Christmas. While Jesse still hasn’t told him much about his father’s house, it’s easy enough to imagine the emptiness. The loneliness.

(The fear.)

So it’s with a certain amount of caution that Jesse begins to unwrap Jack’s present, a small thing no bigger than the palm of his hand. His eyes light up: it’s a brown leather wallet, rather simple, but clearly of high quality, the leather smooth and the stitching straight and perfectly even.

It’s hard to say who’s more startled when Jesse leans over to give Jack a hug. “So you don’t have to carry around that awful gunny sack anymore,” Jack says gruffly once he’s gotten over the initial surprise, patting Jesse on the back.

Angela’s gift leaves Gabe wondering if she and Jack went shopping together. It’s a leather-bound journal, clearly of similar quality to the wallet, with a simple fountain pen tucked into a loop on the spine.

“I find it’s healthy for the mind to keep a record of your thoughts,” Angela says, dimpling as Jesse turns the journal over in his hands, stroking the cover with his fingers. “Or even just your daily activities! You never know.”

“Thanks, Angie,” Jesse says, voice hushed. After a moment’s hesitation, he leans over to hug her too.

Then he turns to Gabe’s gift, regarding it with an expression generally reserved for precious jewels. Or ticking bombs.

Before he can reach for it, Gabe clears his throat. “I, um. I actually sent for something else for you.” He rubs the back of his neck, grimacing; he’d been almost inconsolable when he’d realized that it wouldn’t be delivered in time for Christmas. “But I suppose the blizzards slowed everything down, so, ah.” He gestures towards the neatly wrapped box at Jesse’s knees. “Go on, open it.”

Jesse takes his sweet time. He painstakingly peels the paper away, taking care to rip it as little as possible. Maybe he’s teasing Gabe. Judging by the way he peers over at him, a mischievous glint in his eyes, he’s definitely teasing Gabe.

Then he gets a look at what’s inside. All pretense is forgotten as he tears the rest of the paper away and tosses it to the side. He smoothes a hand over the lid of the polished oak box, something like awe in the twitch of his fingers as he opens the latch with a click.

Gabe finds himself nervously watching Jesse’s face. He’d thought it was quite a nice thing, the shaving kit. Leather strop, lather brush, tin of woody-scented soap. All brand new and finely made; the shopkeep had assured him that the blade itself was of fine quality.

It’s a backup gift, but the look on Jesse’s face is breathtaking. Lips parted, cheeks pinked, eyes wide and gleaming with surprise and pleasure as he glances up at Gabe.

“Gabe,” Jesse whispers. So sweetly, almost intimate, as if he’s forgotten about the other people in the room. “Thank you.”

Gabe almost jerks back, only just swallowing the urge to seize Jesse by the shoulders and drag him into a kiss.

“Yeah, well,” he says, suddenly breathless. “You need it for that shoebrush on your face.” He gestures at the untamed scruff on Jesse’s jaw and chin that grows thicker and thicker with each passing day.

Jesse grins widely at him.

They both jump Jack clears his throat. He’s got a strange little smile on his face. “Your turn,” he nods at Gabe.

Gabe gratefully takes the out and turns back to the tree. Stoops forward to reach for the nearest box. But before he can grab it, Jesse suddenly jumps to his feet. “Wait just a tick,” he says before he darts out into the hallway, leaving the rest of them sitting in bemusement.

Jack raises his eyebrows at Gabe. Gabe shrugs, just as clueless. Angela, oddly enough, is positively beaming.

Thumping, rustling. The slam of a door, hurried footsteps. Jesse materializes in the doorway, panting slightly.

In his hand he brandishes a long cloth bag. “This is for you,” he says, shoving it into Gabe’s hands. “I thought it’d be kinda obvious what it is if I tried an’ put it under the tree, so….”

Gabe knows exactly what it is. He goes quiet as he lays it down in his lap, hands almost unsteady as he undoes the drawstrings of the bag and slowly rucks it down.

He feels his jaw go slack.

“Well, would you look at that?” Jack murmurs. “You could meet the Queen of England with a cane like that.”

It really is a gorgeous thing. Dark, elegant, polished. Smooth where his plain wooden crookneck is splintered, solid where it’s weak. And the handle — Gabe thinks it must be ivory. Beautifully carved, cool to the touch.

Such a fine thing. Gabe didn’t even want to think about how much it must have cost.

“Jesse.” He opens his arms without hesitation, and Jesse meets him there, almost throwing himself into Gabe’s embrace. His knees hit the floor hard, but if it hurts him at all Jesse gives no indication, just wrapping his arms around Gabe’s shoulders and pulling him close.

Gabe suddenly wishes, with all his heart, that Jack and Angela were anywhere but here so he could kiss his boy silly.

“Merry Christmas, Jesse,” he says in lieu of doing just that. He doesn’t realize he’s grinning until his cheeks begin to ache.

“And here’s to a hundred more,” Jesse agrees, beaming just as wide.

But Gabe hears what he means to say, plain as day — “I love you.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys, thanks for being so patient while i wrestled with this chapter. while i won't promise a regular updating schedule, i will promise that i'm not gonna go 8 months between chapters again!


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